To Err Is Human
by Melanie Athene
Summary: To err is human, to forgive divine. A 'fix it' fic which picks up where episode 6x22 left off.
1. Oh, God

"I'm not an angel anymore. I'm your new God. A better one. So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you."

"No... Cas..." Dean whispered, his heart breaking a little bit more, though he had thought that impossible. Surely, there was no tiny portion of his already shattered heart left to break? No hope for a tomorrow he had never really dared believe in. Not that it mattered now. It was over. Cas was gone. This new God was something else entirely... and he was impatiently waiting for an answer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught the look Bobby shot his way as the wily old hunter surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket, reaching for God knows what – _and God probably does know,_ Dean thought bleakly.

A quick glance his brother's way revealed Sam shifting restlessly from foot to foot. _On the count of three..._ Sam indicated, his fingers twitching out an old, well-practiced signal. _Run!_

_And then what?_ Dean wondered, a cold wave of despair flooding his veins.

"And then you die," Castiel answered the unspoken question, his voice eerily dispassionate. "One by one you die. You can't hide from me, Dean. You can't stop me. None of you can. Accept the inevitable. Bow down and profess your love. _Now._ I will not ask again."

Sam's shoulders slumped; Bobby's empty hands fell back to his sides, fingers curled into impotent fists, his face flushed with rage. Both men looked to Dean for guidance, but Dean's gaze remained fixed on Castiel's narrowed eyes.

"All right," Dean said, his throat tightening as he swallowed nervously. "All right, Cas. You win. I'll be the first to send a little prayer your way. Let's see how you answer it, you bastard."

Castiel frowned, but tilted his head attentively.

_Please,_ Dean prayed. _Please, God, for once in my fucking life, can you be here for me? Please, God... Please... Make it right..._

A brilliant white light washed through the room, the accompanying volley of thunder deafening in its intensity.

"Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick!" Dean exclaimed.

"I tried that when they first came out," a familiar voice said wistfully. "Looked like fun, but I broke my leg in two places. Hula hoops, Dean. Trust me, they're much safer."

"Chuck?" Dean sputtered.

"Father?" came Castiel's simultaneous query.

"Oh, God," Dean groaned. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Hello, Dean," Chuck said quietly. "Sam, always a pleasure to see you. Bobby, you're looking well. Castiel..."

The new God lifted his chin defiantly. "You're too late," he sneered. "Centuries too late. Begone, Yahweh. Your days of glory are over. This is the dawn of a new age."

"You're not the first new god to think so," Chuck grinned. "You won't be the last. But here I am... and here I stay. And here, I think," he continued softly, "you go."

With a simple wave of Chuck's hand, Castiel was sent crashing to his knees, the floor cracking under the brutal force of his landing.

"Thou shalt have no other gods before me," Chuck intoned. "Did you forget that, Castiel? In your hunger for power, did you forget that I am a jealous God, a vengeful God? Give me one reason why I should not crush you, little angel, as you threatened to destroy these children, _my_ children..."

Castiel screamed as Chuck's slender hand gripped his shoulder. His head tilted back, face frozen in a rictus of pain and terror as beams of light split through his skin, bathing the room in a second fierce burst of blinding energy.

The three hunters squeezed their eyes tightly shut and clasped their hands over their ears as the impossible brightness intensified and Castiel's screams grew louder and more piercing, escalating towards an angel's True Voice.

"What you have stolen is mine," Chuck whispered, every word crystal clear despite the noise. "I take it back. But what should I leave of you?"

"Stop it!" Dean roared. "Stop it, Chuck. This isn't what I prayed for. This isn't right."

"Ah," Chuck said, and his hand eased away from Castiel's shoulder. As if flipped off by a switch, the light show ended. With a final breathless whimper, Castiel collapsed to the ground and curled in on himself, shoulders shaking and head cradled in his arms. "The Righteous Man," Chuck mused. "You presume to tell me what to do?"

"There's no need to go all Old Testament on his ass," Dean barked, blinking to clear the dancing spots that still clouded his vision.

"Dean..." Sam warned, sidling closer to tug at his brother's sleeve.

But Dean stubbornly shook Sam off and moved to stand between the fallen angel and the wrathful God. "You've been around long enough to know that never turns out well," he snapped. "What about turn the other cheek? What about God is love and mercy? What about stepping up and taking a little of the blame here?"

An angry rumble of thunder sounded and sparks flashed dangerously in Chuck's darkening eyes.

"Dean..." Sam moaned.

"Shut up, you idjit," Bobby hissed.

But Dean was only getting started. Instead of withdrawing, he got even further up in Chuck's face, an angry index finger actually poking God in the chest, his other, injured arm awkwardly held to his own breast. "Where the hell were you when all this was going down? Sucking back margaritas in Tahiti? Heaven was at war! Raphael was an asshole. And Cas... Cas screwed up. He screwed up royally. But his heart was in the right place. Right up until those damned souls took him over, he was doing the best he could. Doing _your_ job. What the fuck gives you the right to show up now and – "

"Dean... No."

All heads turned towards the speaker. Somehow, Castiel had managed to drag his obviously pain-wracked body up to a precarious kneeling position. His face was streaked with blood, his body trembling with the effort to keep himself from toppling over. His eyes were wide with fear, but his voice was strong and sure and pure _Cas_. Castiel as he was meant to be, as he had always been: Dean's Cas, his protector, his angel, his friend.

"Father, I know you cannot forgive me but, I beg you, forgive him. He knows not what he – "

"I don't need his forgiveness," Dean snarled. "What I need is – " And there he stopped, a look of consternation crossing his face, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, no further words forthcoming and his ability to breathe quite suddenly gone. _What I need is you._ The thought beat wildly through his head, fluttered madly on his tongue, and was sternly swallowed before the words could spill from his lips. But, once experienced, the revelation could not be forgotten or denied.

_I need you._ Dean's words. Rarely spoken. Painfully true.

_I did it all for you._ Castiel's words. Oft repeated. Equally true.

Two sides of the same coin.

Two halves of a whole, forever kept apart, the edges blurred because that coin just kept on mindlessly spinning. But what if it were to stop? What if Dean reached out and grabbed that spinning coin and held it tightly in his hand? Would it be the end or the beginning? Could it be both?

"Do you understand now, Dean?" Chuck murmured, no trace of anger in his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," Dean whispered. "Yes. I finally do."

"Well I don't," Bobby grumbled. "Would someone care to enlighten me?"

"Later, perhaps," Chuck said absentmindedly. "Right now, Dean and I need to have a little chat." And with a second casual motion of his hand, Sam and Bobby were gone.

"Sam!" Dean cried.

Chuck rolled his eyes. "They are safe, Dean. They're waiting for you in the car."

"But my car is – "

"No, it isn't. It is as it should be."

Dean nodded his thanks and retreated a few steps, unconsciously repositioning himself between Chuck and Castiel. "So, what happens now, Chuck? What about Cas? Forgive and forget?"

"Something like that," Chuck nodded. "After all, 'To err is human'. I'd say he made a whopper of an error, wouldn't you, Dean? So," he shrugged. "Let him be human."

Dean's glance slid to the former God – soon to be former angel. Cas still knelt where he had fallen, his head bowed, waiting to accept whatever punishment his Father deemed just.

"And what of 'to forgive divine'?" Dean said, disturbed by Castiel's quiet acquiescence – but why should he be? This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? Cas defused. God in his Heaven, all right with the world. He should be dancing for joy. But he was still angry, damn it. Damned angry. Beyond furious. Craving justice – or maybe it was revenge. Cas had betrayed him. Cas had spit in the face of his offer of friendship and brotherhood – but, was that cruel-minded being truly Cas? Certainly he had nothing in common with this Cas. _His_ Cas, an adamant little voice murmured in the back of his mind. And that Cas – the old Cas – deserved a fucking break. Didn't he? But was Dean ready to grant him absolution? Would he ever be?

Chuck's gaze never wavered as he read the conflicting turmoil of thoughts flashing through Dean's mind. "I think I'll leave the forgiveness to you," he said quietly.

"To me?" Dean snorted, the disbelief obvious in his voice. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I'm pretty pissed off at the guy, Chuck. Seriously pissed. There'll be nothing divine about my judgement. After all, as Cas was damned quick to point out, I'm just a man..."

"And, now, so is he. I think that levels the playing field quite nicely, hmm?"

"At least I won't damn near break my hand this time when I punch him in the jaw," Dean mumbled.

"Oh, I think you're better than that, Dean." Chuck said softly. "So... my will be done, etcetera, etcetera. I'll fancy it up when I get back to writing The Winchester Gospels. In the meantime, let's just say this: how much of his divine state Castiel regains depends on how much you are willing to forgive." Chuck moved past Dean and gently rested his hand on Castiel's bowed head. "Until then, you are human, Castiel. Free to live as a human. Free to make mistakes... and free to suffer the consequences."

As Castiel lifted his head, astonishment flooding the brilliant blue of his eyes, Chuck vanished.

In the suddenly silent room, the sound of Castiel taking a deep, shuddering breath was as startling as a newborn baby's cry. Slowly, cautiously, he staggered to his feet and stood there uncertainly, swaying slightly as his eyes moved inevitably to meet Dean's level stare.

Castiel's mouth opened, as if to speak, then closed with an audible snap. What was there left for him to say but goodbye? Obviously, 'I'm sorry' wouldn't cut it. Despite the elder Winchester brother once again defying common sense and springing to an unworthy angel's defence, Dean had made it perfectly clear that they were through, Castiel's deeds and choices unforgivable.

As if in response to Castiel's thoughts, Dean turned and walked away, each step widening the chasm between them.

_If I were human, I'd weep,_ Castiel thought. But he was human now, wasn't he? And tears were already quietly streaming from his eyes as he helplessly watched Dean walk out of his life.

Dean paused with his hand on the door handle. His shoulders pulled back, straightening as they always did when he was steeling himself to do what he must do, no matter how hard the task. "Well?" he growled, his face still turned to the door.

"Well?" Castiel echoed blankly, trying his best to hold back the sob welling up in his throat.

And then Dean did turn, and the look on his face was at once the most beautiful and most amazing sight Castiel had seen in all the many long years of his existence: Dean was weeping too.

"Well," Dean repeated gruffly. "Are you coming, Clarence? Let's go see if we can earn you a shiny new pair of wings."


	2. In the Beginning

Castiel followed closely on Dean's heels as he exited Crowley's lab, the screech of the fire door's rusty hinges disturbing the heavy silence which had descended upon the night. A light breeze ruffled Dean's sweat-dampened hair, and he felt the sudden urge to just stand there and breathe in the sweet, fresh air.

Castiel bumped into the hunter as he came to an unexpected halt, and jerked himself back as if burned. "Sorry," he mumbled. He had a feeling he'd be saying that a lot in the foreseeable future.

Dean made a dismissive gesture, only to wince when it jostled his injured arm.

"Is it broken?" Castiel asked.

"I don't know," Dean replied, dropping back a step so they could walk side by side as they continued to make their way around the building. "Hurts like a bitch, though."

"I wish I could – " Cas began and then fell silent, biting his lower lip in shamed dismay.

"I know," Dean said softly. "I wish too. I should've mentioned it to Chuck before he buggered off. Still..." he smiled happily as they rounded a corner and the Impala came into view, two familiar figures standing next to it, deep in an animated conversation. "Given a choice between fixing me and fixing my baby, I'm glad things worked out the way they did."

Castiel nodded uncertainly and kept walking. His stomach gave a funny little flutter as they drew nearer to the car and Sam and Bobby's faces were more fully revealed. Predictably, neither man appeared happy. Castiel swallowed dryly. What, exactly, was the proper protocol for greeting people you had just threatened to smite if they didn't bow down and love you?

It turned out he wasn't given the opportunity to say anything at all.

As Castiel and Dean stepped into the bright sphere of light a streetlight cast, they heard the sharp, unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and Bobby brought his shotgun up to bear on the former angel's chest.

"Whoa! Whoa, Bobby!" Dean cried, swiftly positioning himself in front of Castiel. "Chill! It's Cas!"

"I can see that," Bobby snapped.

"He's human!" Dean said, pivoting to keep Castiel safely behind him as Bobby slowly circled around, attempting to get a clear shot.

"All the better," Bobby growled, quickening his pace so that Dean was forced into a ridiculous, shuffling dance in order to keep Castiel shielded.

"A little help here, Sammy," Dean shouted.

Sam shrugged. His gaze was icy as it swept over Castiel and not much warmer when he finally focused on his brother. "Have you forgotten what he just put us through?"

"Of course I haven't. I'm not a fool."

"Neither am I," Sam said flatly. "Why should we believe he's what you say he is – who's to say you are really you."

"Sam..." Dean said, wearily scrubbing his right hand across his face as he stepped smartly to the left, countering Bobby's move while Castiel remained frozen in place. "I'm really not in the mood for this. We'll run the tests. Give you whatever proof you need. But can we please not do it here? I'm tired and my arm hurts like hell. So put that fucking gun away, Bobby, or I swear I'll come over there and shove it up your ass."

"I'd say that's definitely Dean, Bobby," Sam said, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Maybe so," Bobby allowed, coming to a stop and reluctantly dipping the barrel of his shotgun towards the ground. "But I still ain't riding anywhere with them. I'm going home in the truck you came in, Sam. You're a damned idjit if you don't join me."

"Can you drive with that arm, Dean?" Sam asked.

"I'll get us there," Dean said through gritted teeth. "Might stop off at ER on the way, so don't wait up for us."

"You want me to ride with you?" Sam offered. "Help keep an eye on Cas?"

"Nah. Take Bobby home before he gets cranky. I'll see you there tomorrow. Set the wards, lock the place down. Cas and I will crash in the car till you come get us."

"Works for me," Bobby said. "Coming, Sam?"

"Yeah..." But still Sam lingered. "Are you sure, Dean?"

"Go!" Dean ordered, standing tall and carefully maintaining that invincible stance until his brother and Bobby were well on their way. But, as the truck's tail lights finally faded in the distance, his shoulders slumped and he gave a muffled little whimper of pain.

"Dean?"

Dean reached into his pocket, fishing for his keys. Finally pulling them free, he dangled them from his index finger.

Castiel looked at him blankly.

"You drive," Dean said quietly.

"Dean, I don't know how to – "

"No time like the present to learn," Dean interrupted, blinking rather owlishly. "You've watched me do it often enough. Hospital's only five or six miles that way." He pointed north, whimpered again. "Ow. I think a couple of my ribs are busted." A second, slower blinking attack followed before he concluded, "Anyway, since there are two of you, one of you should be able to figure it out."

"Two of me? Dean..."

But Dean's only reply was to close his eyes and slip quietly into unconsciousness.

Castiel's arms were around him before he hit the ground.

* * *

Dean woke to the comforting sound of a purring engine, the familiar scent of the Impala's backseat rising from beneath his prone body, the equally familiar scent of Castiel's trench coat spread over him from above. Slowly, his eyes cracked open to focus on the driver. Castiel's posture was more rigid than usual, which was really saying something. The ex-angel was also muttering under his breath in a steady flow of Enochian. _Curses or a pep talk? _Dean wondered. _Maybe a mix of both..._

_Dude really needs to learn how to relax,_ Dean thought fondly. He drifted then, eyes opening and closing as streetlights came and went, the rhythmic hiss of pavement under the wheels a soothing lullaby, luring him back towards sleep... until that rhythm was suddenly disturbed by Castiel's unpractised arrival at a stop sign.

Dean grunted as his poor, abused body was jarred.

Instantly, Castiel twisted around, a piercing blue gaze sweeping to meet Dean's eyes, his own face bathed in concern and light and shadow.

"You're awake."

"You're driving."

"So I am." Castiel smiled. "I think I like it."

Dean returned the smile, their eyes locking as they so often had in the past, the world narrowing to the two of them lost in silent communion.

Abruptly, a horn sounded behind them and an impatient SUV tore around the Impala, horn still blaring and a young man's middle finger angrily stabbing the air.

"Uh," Castiel said, clearing his throat self-consciously, the moment gone. "Apparently, I am a traffic hazard."

Dean gingerly eased up to a sitting position. "No, you're doing fine," he said, glancing around, trying to orient himself. "Hospital's just over that way, if I remember right." Lord knows, he should remember. Pre-locating hospitals had become instinctive over the years. He and Sam visited the places often enough, when a quick patch-up job wouldn't do or they were running low on medical supplies.

"Do you want to take over?" Castiel offered, a frown creasing his forehead.

"No," Dean repeated, leaning back and closing his eyes.

He didn't have to look to see a smile return to Castiel's face. He just knew that it was there.

* * *

Dean made it to the admittance desk on his own two feet, Castiel hovering anxiously by his side, but his head was aching too badly in the cold glare of the fluorescent lights for him to read the fine print on the form a busy nurse thrust his way. In turn, he passed the clipboard and pencil over to Castiel and dug out a phoney credit card for the nurse to process while the two men settled in nearby chairs.

_Name._ Castiel neatly printed Dean Winchester.

"Jagger," Dean whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The name on that credit card is Dean Jagger. J-a-g-g-e-r."

Castiel dutifully made the correction.

_Address._ He frowned.

"Use Bobby's."

_Date of birth._ Castiel entered Dean's correct birth date, then shot a defiant glance his way. Dean huffed in amusement and shut his eyes.

_Next of kin._ Sam Win– No. Castiel erased the surname and started over again. Sam Jagger.

"Cas," Dean murmured.

"Yes?"

"No, I mean put Cas Jagger down as my next of kin."

"Me?"

Dean sighed. "Being my brother gives you special privileges. Might come in handy if I pass out again."

Castiel carefully rubbed out 'Sam' and wrote 'Cas' with a slightly trembling hand. Swiftly, then, he completed the rest of the form and sat there studying it as Dean began to softly snore. Brother. The word leapt off the page and made his heart swell uncomfortably in his chest. He didn't deserve that honour. Not any more. But he would someday – however far away that someday might be. He might never regain his wings, but he would regain Dean's trust – or die trying.

"Mr. Jagger?"

Dean slept on.

"Mr. Jagger," the nurse called more loudly.

"Yes," Castiel said, rising from his chair and passing the clipboard over to her waiting hand.

"Possible head injury," she read, a manicured finger swiftly skimming across the form. "He fell?"

_We both did,_ Castiel thought giddily. "Yes," he managed to reply in an even tone.

"Seems like you had a little accident too," she observed wryly.

Castiel wiped a hand across his face, dried blood flecking his fingers as he drew them away. "It's nothing," he said. "A nosebleed. I – I bumped my head when I was helping Dean into the car."

The nurse stared at him dubiously for a few seconds, but then simply handed back Dean's credit card. "Take a seat, Mr. Jagger. The doctor should be with you shortly. Your brother picked a good night to fall."

* * *

Two hours later, Castiel was once again sliding behind the wheel of the Impala, this time with Dean settled beside him in the passenger seat.

Dean's ribs were bandaged, his arm in a sling. Nothing broken, thankfully, but he was obviously out of commission for awhile, and the bruising promised to be quite spectacular by morning. As for his slight concussion and the ensuing headache... the small sample bottle of painkillers he held clutched in his hand should take care of that soon enough. And he had a prescription for more when those ran out.

"Wake him every couple of hours tonight," the doctor had advised Castiel as Dean shuffled from the examination cubicle, obviously half dead on his feet with pain and exhaustion. "He's going to be fine, but better safe than sorry."

"I'll take care of him," Castiel promised. And never before had he meant those words more sincerely.

Cautiously, he started up the car and exited the parking lot, fully intending to continue their interrupted journey to Bobby's. A few miles down the road, however, he hit a T-junction and a flickering neon sign several hundred feet off to the left caught his eye. He activated the turn signal accordingly.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked drowsily. "Bobby's is that way." He gestured to the right.

"I know." Castiel turned the wheel to the left and accelerated with a head bobbing series of short jerks.

"They're expecting us."

"They'll have to wait," Castiel said, pulling into his new destination, turning off the engine and pocketing the key. "You are not spending the night sleeping in this car."

Before Dean could open his mouth to argue, the car door slammed in his face and Castiel was striding across the pavement into the motel office. A few minutes later, the 'vacancy' signed sputtered off and Castiel reappeared, holding a key attached to a hideous pink fob.

"Room 9," Castiel said, opening Dean's door and hesitantly offering a helping hand. Much to the ex-angel's surprise, Dean took it, obviously grateful for the assistance. And then he simply stood there, swaying slightly, while Castiel retrieved his duffle from the trunk and locked up the car.

"How'd you pay for this?" Dean asked, struggling to hold back a yawn. He failed.

A puzzled Castiel found himself yawning too. _What a strange reaction,_ he thought. _Humans are such curious creatures._ He withdrew Dean's credit card from his breast pocket and gave it back to him. Dean's laughter was cut short by another yawn, which Castiel echoed a second time.

"I think we both need a good night's sleep," Dean said as Castiel opened the door and fumbled for a light switch.

Castiel's murmur of agreement died as a dim wash of light revealed the contents of the room. There was one bed. It wasn't even queen-sized – maybe a double, at best. A small double.

"I'll sleep in the car," he said. "Just let me clean myself up a bit and I'll – "

"Come to bed," Dean completed the sentence.

"Leave," Castiel said at the same time.

"No," Dean said quietly. "Stay."

"What?"

"Stay," Dean repeated. "You have to wake me up every now and then. Remember?"

"Oh. Of course." Castiel's eyes skittered around the scantly furnished room. "I can sleep in the chair."

"You'll break your neck if you try that without your angel mojo. Look, we've both had a long, hard day. It's no big deal, Cas. There's plenty of room for two. You're smaller than Sam and he and I have squeezed into tighter spaces."

_I should argue against this,_ Castiel thought wearily. _I don't deserve this act of kindness. But I'm too weak to refuse..._

"Wash up and come to bed," Dean ordered, fumbling his jeans open one-handed and kicking his legs free after toeing off his boots.

Following the latter part of his own advice, Dean climbed under the covers and closed his eyes. He was deeply asleep long before Castiel tiptoed from the bathroom, turned out the light and tentatively crept in to lie beside him, fully dressed except for his shoes, and determined to only rest his eyes a little while... just until it was time to wake Dean...

* * *

The late morning sun woke them both, a piercing ray of light sneaking in past poorly closed curtains and falling squarely in their faces as they both lay on their right sides facing the window. Castiel was tightly spooned against Dean's back, his left hand possessively curled around the handprint he had branded on Dean's shoulder.

"Good morning," Dean said softly, rolling over and staring into Castiel's widening eyes. "Sleep well?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel blurted, withdrawing his hand and all but tumbling to the floor in his haste to escape. _What must Dean think?_ His face flushed scarlet as he bent to search for his shoes.

"Sorry?" Dean said, stretching warily to test the soreness of his muscles before crawling out of bed. "Oh, because you forgot to wake me up? That's all right, Cas. I'm okay. I managed to wake up on my own a couple of times. No brain damage sustained – at least none that I know of," he grinned.

"I should have kept watch," Castiel muttered angrily.

"Hey!" Dean said sharply. "None of that. I've been through this dozens of times. I know the drill. You needed the sleep, Cas. It's not easy being human."

Castiel focused all his attention on untying a nasty knot in his shoelace.

"Hey," Dean repeated more gently. "You needed a little comfort too. I don't mind that you found it."

Castiel nodded, not knowing what to say. Comfort. Touching. It was the human way... and he couldn't deny that he'd found it very... pleasant. Extremely so. In fact, to be quite honest, he wouldn't mind doing it again. Sleeping with Dean... Touching Dean...

"I meant what I said, you know," Dean said, laying his hand on top of Castiel's and stilling his absentminded, nervous plucking of the stubborn lace.

"Oh," Castiel said faintly, staring at their hands, the warmth of Dean's fingertips spreading tendrils of answering heat throughout his body.

"Not because I was trying to get you to step back from becoming a god. Not because it was convenient at the hospital. You're family. Have been for awhile now." Dean's head dipped down, trying to catch Castiel's deliberately averted eyes. "You know what family means to me?"

"I know," Castiel whispered, unable now to tear his gaze away from Dean's. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.

"Okay, then." Dean patted his arm and moved away. "See that you never forget it. Because, Cas," he turned back then, the fervent glow in his green eyes beautiful to behold, "Family is sacred... but that doesn't mean I don't call 'em on crap and butt heads with them now and then."

"I know that too."

"Then we'll save that discussion for another day," Dean said firmly. "Let's head for Bobby's."

"Ah, yes. Time for me to face the inquisition."

"Together," Dean said. "We face it together. You're not alone, Cas. Not anymore. You've got me. Sam and Bobby too... eventually. So... are you ready?"

"Yes?" Cas said doubtfully, tucking in a dangling shirttail and trying to project an air of confidence he didn't feel.

Dean shot him an exasperated glance. "Dude, seriously, don't you think it's time to shed the holy tax accountant look?"

"What is wrong with my clothes?"

"It looks like you slept in them."

"I did sleep in them. They are the only clothes I have."

Dean snorted and pulled a clean T-shirt from his duffle bag. "Put this on," he said, tossing the garment at Castiel's head and heading for the bathroom. "I'll be right back."

Castiel stood there a few moments, staring at the closed door and clutching the shirt to his breast. The fabric was soft and faded from multiple washings. It smelled like Dean. Holding it was almost like holding Dean... almost like being held by Dean...

Swiftly, he stripped out of his wrinkled suit coat and blood-stained dress shirt and whipped off his crooked tie. Slipping into the T-shirt felt like coming home. He stuffed his discarded garments into the duffle and zipped the bag.

"Ready?" Dean inquired, returning to the room as Castiel was tying up his shoes.

"Yes," Castiel replied. And this time, much to his surprise, he found he truly meant it.

"Good," said Dean, looking slightly sheepish. "Because I think I could use some help getting dressed."

* * *

"Where are they?" Bobby asked for what had to be the fourth or fifth time, peering out the window at his empty dooryard. "Probably halfway to Canada by now," he answered his own question.

"They'll be here," Sam said. "Dean said they'd come."

"Dean said a lot of things," Bobby muttered darkly. "It's what he didn't say that worries me."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't he seem a mite too willing to welcome Cas back into the fold, no questions asked?"

"It's Cas, Bobby. They have that whole 'profound bond' thing going for them. And Cas almost died... again. You know how Dean is. You know how he was when he lost me."

"Cas is not you."

"No, he isn't. But he's somehow worked his way into Dean's heart. We're going to have to accept that."

"I don't know if I can."

"Then you'll lose Dean. Don't make him choose, Bobby. You won't win. Hell, I'm not sure I would."

"You're his brother, for Christ's sake!"

"Yes, I am. But Cas... Cas is... something more. He has been for some time."

Bobby nodded slowly. "Okay, Sam. We'll do it your way. They pass the tests, and I won't try to kill Dean's boyfriend. Don't think I'm gonna roll out a red carpet, though."

"I'm not sure how I feel about having Cas around either. Not after all the shit he pulled. But if Dean says he's family, he's family." Sam grinned wolfishly. "At least he's human now. I'm pretty sure I can kick his ass if he gets out of line."

Bobby chuckled.

Companionably, they settled at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, reading the morning paper and pretending not to watch the clock.

It was approaching mid-afternoon when the familiar rumble of the Impala finally sounded in the distance.

"Ready?" Sam said.

Bobby nodded, snatching up his shotgun and a few other necessary tools of the trade. They were already outside when the car came into view, its passage less fluid than usual as it navigated a twisted path through Bobby's junkyard.

Sam squinted against the glare partially obscuring the windshield.

"That's not Dean at the wheel," Bobby observed.

"No," Sam agreed. "It isn't. It's... it's..."

"Cas?" they said together.

Mouths agape, the two hunters watched as Castiel pulled to a fairly smooth stop and turned off the engine. Then he opened the door, stepped out and calmly stood there, head tilted to one side, as Dean clambered awkwardly from the passenger seat and came around the Impala to stand beside him.

"Sam. Bobby," Dean said casually, as if he routinely handed his precious car and favourite T-shirt over to anyone who happened to ask for them.

_"Christo!"_ Sam cried, and tossed a vial of holy water in his brother's face.

Bobby laughed until his sides ached and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.


	3. The Evidence of Things Not Seen

It took the better part of an hour for Dean and Castiel to be tested. In that time they were poked, prodded, cut and scratched. They inhaled noxious potions and imbibed more of the same. In short, they were subjected to every test Bobby and Sam could recall – and the combined knowledge of the two hunters was very extensive indeed. When commonplace silver and salt and holy water proved to have no adverse effects whatsoever, Sam and Bobby moved on to more exotic items like holy oil and dead man's blood, cubeb and asafetida.

All the slowly – and sometimes painfully – accumulated evidence confirmed Dean and Castiel were human.

Inevitably, Dean treated Sam and Bobby to an exasperated 'I told you so' routine. But it was clear his heart wasn't in it. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and his injured arm throbbed in rhythm with his pounding head. It almost felt like the damned thing was going to rip itself off and beat him to death, and wouldn't that just be ironic: survive an apocalypse or two only to kick the bucket from a simple little fall. If it didn't hurt so bad to breathe, he'd laugh his ass off. Maybe he'd get around to that later. Right now, though, he wanted in out of the blinding glare of the sun. He wanted food and a shower and about a week in bed... not necessarily in that order.

"So, Bobby," he growled. "Gonna keep us standin' out here all day?"

"Reckon not," Bobby drawled, wiping a cloth across the angel sword he held expertly in his hand, meticulously removing all traces of the scarlet smear which stained the glistening blade.

Castiel stared at the blood welling up from the cut on his forearm, as if amazed that the gash didn't immediately start to heal itself. But the blood just kept flowing, a steady drip, drip, drip that raised little clouds of dust as the droplets fell to the ground. Black dots danced across his vision as he observed this final, undeniable proof of his mortality.

"Cas? Cas?"

The voice sounded far away, though he knew from the warm weight of the hand resting on his arm that Dean was standing right beside him, invading his personal space as he had so often invaded Dean's.

"Are you okay?"

"I am... fine," he replied, the words sounding slurred and unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Dude, you look anything but fine," Dean said. "When's the last time you had something to eat?"

"Famine," Castiel replied, swaying slightly. "Raw ground beef." He grimaced in distaste.

"Man, that's the better part of a year ago. Let's get you inside and gas up the tank." Dean's hand slid to Castiel's elbow, guiding his slow journey to Bobby's kitchen. "We'll disinfect that cut too." He nodded towards the sword as Bobby walked past them, intent on locking it safely away. "You don't know where that thing's been."

"Angel..."

"Not any more, you ain't," Bobby snorted.

Dean felt the flinch Castiel tried to hide, and his lips thinned in anger.

"Angel blade," Castiel continued, pretending he had not heard Bobby's mean-spirited jibe.

"You mean it's self-cleansing?" Dean guessed, settling Castiel in a chair at the table and hastening over to ransack Bobby's fridge. He might as well make several sandwiches while he was at it. He was hungry too. He'd been too out of it to eat last night, and in too much of a rush to swing by a diner this morning. Of course, the thought of food had never even crossed Castiel's mind.

"Holy," Castiel corrected. "No bacteria can survive upon it."

"Well, that's good to know," Bobby said, plopping himself down in the chair furthest from the one Dean had claimed for Castiel. "I'd hate to give some poor bastard a nasty infection when I slice and dice him."

"Ha, ha, ha," Dean said dryly, fumbling the bread wrapper open one-handed. "Don't suppose you could lend me a hand here, funny man? And where the hell has Sam disappeared to?"

"This is a self-serve joint," Bobby growled, "I'm not your damned waiter. And Sam went on ahead to the panic room. He's setting up accommodations for 'our Lord'. It ain't a stable, but it should do."

"The panic room?" Dean said slowly, the paring knife he held in his right hand pausing in mid-slice of a tomato. "What the hell, Bobby? Cas isn't our prisoner."

"He's not an honoured guest, either. He ain't even a welcome one."

Dean gently set the knife on the countertop. "And what about me?" he said, looking out the window into the dooryard, not trusting himself to turn around and face his old friend. "Am I welcome here, Bobby?"

"Dean..." Castiel said softly. "Dean, it's all right. I will gladly stay in the panic room."

"Answer the question, Bobby. Am. I. Welcome. Here."

"You always have been." The 'until now' remained unspoken, but the words hung heavy on the air between them.

"Maybe I need locking up too."

"Maybe you do."

"Dean..." Castiel said, distress plain to hear in his voice. "There is no need to – "

"You keep out of this!" Dean snapped, spinning around to share a scowl equally with Bobby and the former angel.

"I should go," Castiel whispered miserably, bowing his head to study his clasped hands.

"Maybe we both should," Dean snarled, furious strides carrying him across the floor towards the kitchen door. "You with me or not, Cas?" he tossed back over his shoulder.

Castiel silently rose from his chair.

"Hey!" Sam cried, bounding into the kitchen like a one man cavalry, brandishing a loaded shotgun and looking more than ready to use it. "What's going on here? I could hear the yelling clear down in the basement."

"Nothing to concern yourself about, Sam," Dean said shortly. "We were just leaving."

"You're what?" Sam shot Bobby a fierce 'now see what you've done' glare.

"Not my doing," Bobby countered, spreading his hands wide in a waiver of all culpability. "Dean's got his panties in a twist over stashing Mr. Bow Down and Love Me in the panic room."

"So help me, Bobby – "

"Shut up, Dean." Sam snapped. "You're being a hypocrite. You had no problem confining me down there. Hell, you strapped me down!"

"Cas is not all hepped up on demon blood."

"No, he prefers to swill down souls."

"He's clean now!"

"And that makes everything all hunky-dory, right?"

"Yes. No. Damn it, Sam, give the guy a chance, will you?"

"The chance to murder us all while we're asleep in our beds?" Bobby inquired pointedly.

"Cas wouldn't do that."

"The old Cas wouldn't," Sam readily agreed, leaning the gun against the wall, but still keeping it within easy reach. "We don't know what he's capable of now. Are you willing to stand guard 24-7? Get real, Dean. You're dead on your feet. A few hours of being locked up won't hurt him."

"He had ample opportunity to kill me last night," Dean said stubbornly, remembering how careful and considerate Castiel had been: covering him with his coat... the gentleness of his hands as he helped him in and out of the car... the sweet warmth of his body pressed against Dean in their shared bed...

A faint blush spread across Dean's cheeks as that particular memory surfaced.

"Just while we sleep, Dean," Sam said, all puppy dog eyes and using the annoying wheedling tone that seldom failed to move his big brother, if only because caving in to it usually shut Sam the fuck up. "Only for a few hours each night, and he'll be sleeping too, so it won't be any great hardship for him. Right, Cas?"

"It is a reasonable precaution," Castiel responded. "You need to rest and recuperate, Dean."

It was the quiet, resigned acceptance in Castiel's voice that broke Dean. The sincere conviction that Dean's well-being was far more important than his own. An answering rush of profound sadness swept though the hunter. _Oh God,_ he thought wistfully, _Cas deserves better than this._

"So it's settled then." Sam rubbed his palms together and exchanged a relieved glance with Bobby. "We'll move Cas down there tonight and – "

"No," Dean said.

"What?"

"You heard me, Sam. I said no."

"Dean..." Castiel, Bobby and Sam chorused, with varying degrees of surprise and dismay.

"If you want to feel safe, you and Bobby can lock yourselves in the damned panic room. That's what it's for. Cas is sleeping on the couch. If you insist he have 'round the clock monitoring, he can bunk with me and I'll escort him where he needs to go. Or we can walk out that door right now and not look back. It's your house, so it's your call, Bobby."

"D-Dean..." Castiel stuttered, his eyes widening in shock as a sudden, agonizing burst of pain shot from his heart to the fingertips of his right hand. Experimentally, he flexed his fingers, bringing the hand up to the level of his eyes and staring at it as if he'd never seen a hand before.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean said, his argument with Sam and Bobby forgotten as he quickly moved to stand next to the trembling man.

Castiel made no reply. He just kept staring at his hand, wincing as a second, stronger pulse travelled the same path as the first. And then he saw it – they all saw it – his hand was glowing: a faint, flickering glow that scarcely registered in the brightly lit kitchen, but a glow nonetheless. And its intensity was growing...

"What the fuck?" Dean whispered. "Are you going to go supernova on us?"

"No," Castiel managed, biting his lip as a third wave swept through his arm. "I don't think so. I just feel... strange... I just want to..."

As if with a mind of its own, his hand stretched out towards Dean.

"I want to – I have to – touch you."

"No, Dean!" Sam cried, grabbing ahold of his brother's arm and roughly jerking him back out of Castiel's reach. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Chuck might have missed extracting a soul or two. God knows what's in there waiting to get out."

Castiel's hand dropped limply to his side, and his shivers escalated into deep shudders.

Dean tore himself free of his brother's grasp. The handprint on his shoulder was throbbing in sync with the pulsating glow of Castiel's hand. "Cas?" he whispered. "What can I do to help?"

"I want... I need..." Castiel's hand rose again to hover in mid air, its palsied shaking and the furrow on the ex-angel's brow indicating his inner battle to abort the motion.

Dean rolled up the left sleeve of his T-shirt and took two quick, decisive steps forward.

"Dean," Sam hissed.

But Dean's focus had narrowed to a pair of anguished blue eyes. Firmly holding Castiel's gaze with his own, Dean reached out and carefully looped his fingers around Castiel's right wrist. And then he drew the hand up to rest on his left shoulder, Castiel's fingers slotting perfectly into place upon his mark.

There was no sudden flash of light, not so much as the tingle of a mild static shock. Instead, a feeling of great peace washed though both men as they stood there, staring into each other's eyes. The unearthly glow faded and was gone as if it had never existed. So too had Dean's pain vanished. He took the first deep breath he'd managed since he'd fallen, and there was no murmur of protest from his bandaged ribs. And so he took another, and another. And then, still holding Castiel's gaze with his own, he slowly slipped his left arm free of the sling and cautiously straightened it out. There was no twinge of pain, no trace of bruising.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered.

"Cas?" Dean said softly. "Have you got your mojo back?"

Castiel finally broke eye contact, his hand slipping from its tight grip on Dean's shoulder. He stared down at the cut on his own arm. The bleeding had finally stopped, but the wound was still painfully open and raw. "No," he said, equally softly. "I'm still human, Dean."

"Then what was that?" Dean said, and there was wonder in his voice.

"Faith," Castiel whispered, and in a lower, even more gravelly tone which sent a shiver down Dean's spine, he added, "Forgiveness."

"I caused that?" Dean breathed.

"Yes. You believed in me. That belief drew forth a flicker of Grace."

"Which you used to heal me... instead of healing yourself."

Castiel shrugged and glanced down at the floor.

"Hey," Dean said, leaning in to recapture his eye. "Next time, hold a little something back for yourself, you hear me? Charge up your batteries."

"Assuming there is a next time," Castiel murmured. "Nothing happened before when you came to my defence. I don't understand what is different about this time... It may never happen again."

"There will be a next time," Dean said, his voice sure, though he too was uncertain as to what had possibly changed between them to make Castiel's lost Grace flare up now. Filing the thought away for later inspection, his gaze travelled to a silent Sam and Bobby. "So," he said, "What's the verdict, Bobby?"

"ET can sleep on the damned couch," Bobby muttered.

And if Dean felt a flutter of regret that he wouldn't get to share his bed with Castiel again, well, he kept that feeling to himself.


	4. Call My Sin to Remembrance

Castiel was sleeping when Dean walked past the living room the next morning, the stacks of books strewn across the coffee table and piled on the floor beside the couch clear evidence that sleep, however badly needed, had not come easily. Dean paused in the doorway and stared at the tuft of dark, unruly hair sticking out from under the top of an old plaid blanket. That, and a shapely foot poking out at the opposite end, was all that was visible of Castiel. The rest of his body was curled up under the blanket as if hiding from what the new day might bring. The pillow which had fallen to the floor and the reading lamp still burning on the end table were proof that slumber had taken him hard and fast when it had finally arrived.

Dean watched the slow rise and fall of Castiel's chest as he gently breathed in and out, and grinned to himself as a loud snore broke the rhythmic breathing. Castiel snuffled a bit, shifted restlessly, and pulled his exposed foot back in under the blanket.

"Awwww," Sam said, startling Dean with his sudden appearance and resting a sharp chin on his brother's shoulder. "He sleeps like a little angel, doesn't he?"

"I should have left you in hell," Castiel grumbled. A fierce blue eye made an appearance and blinked owlishly before vanishing back under the covers.

"And here I had him pegged as a morning person," Sam laughed, slapping Dean on the back and continuing on his way to the kitchen, whistling cheerfully.

"I know you're still standing there," a muffled voice said after a few long moments of silence.

"You wishin' I was back in hell too?" Dean snorted, vastly amused by Castiel's peevish tone.

"Never!" This time, two blue eyes appeared and the look they bestowed upon Dean was soft and open and –

– _Sweet, damn it,_ Dean admitted in the privacy of his mind.

"You getting up any time soon?" he queried, his voice rough with more than a trace of embarrassment.

"What time is it?"

"A little after 5:30."

Castiel yawned and sat up, half the blanket trailing to the floor, the other half remaining modestly draped across his lap. A slim and pale, but surprisingly well-sculpted nude torso rose from the upper folds of the blanket. Bony knees and hairy shins peeked out at Dean from below the blanket's ragged hem, and bare toes curled and uncurled in a threadbare carpet as Castiel slowly processed this obviously unwelcome information.

"Dude, you better have something on under there," Dean said, looking nervously at the slacks draped over the arm of a nearby easy chair. His T-shirt and a pair of black dress socks were in a neatly folded pile on the seat of the same chair.

"You complain if I sleep in my clothes. You complain if I disrobe. Make up your mind, Dean. My vessel – _my_ body – fluctuated between being overheated and being chilled last night. It was most disconcerting. I found the only practical solution was to – Dean?"

But Dean had already fled to the kitchen, unwilling to learn the answer to the age old question boxers or briefs or...

_La-la-la,_ his brain happily supplied. _Coffee. I need coffee. A big, hot Cas of coffee – I mean, __cup__ of coffee. Damn!_

He really needed to have a talk with his brain.

* * *

Breakfast was uneventful, except for Castiel's brush with death.

He padded into the kitchen – still bare-footed, but otherwise fully dressed, Dean noted with relief – and quietly stood observing the buzz of activity in the room. Bobby simultaneously tended a pan of scrambled eggs and a second pan of sizzling bacon, spatula in one hand and a long-handled fork in the other. Sam trekked back and forth between refrigerator and table, carrying over condiments, plates and large glasses of orange juice and relocating the impressive collection of books which had accumulated over the past several days to the top of the fridge. Dean had already set the coffeemaker to work, the strong scent of the brew competing with the tantalizing smell of frying bacon, and he was currently rummaging through a drawer in an apparently vain search for clean utensils.

"May I help?" Castiel offered the room at large, eager to prove himself not to be a burden.

"Sure," Sam said, and promptly assigned him to toast making duty, in the naïve belief that even an inexperienced ex-angel couldn't screw up that simple task.

He was wrong.

The first few slices were fine, if a little too dark for Dean's liking. Nevertheless, Castiel proudly spread butter on the slightly charred bread and stacked the slices on a plate while he waited for the next batch to pop up from the toaster. Unfortunately, one slice had either torn or been inserted crookedly, and the release mechanism jammed. As billows of smoke rose from the malfunctioning appliance, Castiel casually began to insert the butter knife in the toaster in the hopes of jimmying the bread free.

Dean later swore that his manly cry of warning ("It was _not_ a girly scream, Sam!") was meant to draw Castiel away from the counter. Instead, Castiel startled forward, accidentally knocking the appliance into a sink filled with suds and soaking pots and pans and dousing himself with water to the point where his bare feet were firmly planted in a sizeable puddle. Unthinkingly, he reached for the toaster...

Dean's desperate hip check saved Castiel's life, if not his pride. Momentum carried Dean forward and the two men toppled to the floor in a tangled jumble of arms and legs.

Breathless from the impact of Dean's weight, Castiel looked up at his rescuer and blinked in dazed confusion as sparks from the drowning toaster sputtered and died, a circuit breaker having finally been thrown by the sudden surge of power.

For several moments, complete and stunned silence reigned, that silence broken only by Dean and Castiel's ragged breathing as they stared into each other's eyes, their noses a hair's breadth away from touching and their lips not that much further apart.

"Dean?" Castiel said uncertainly.

As if Castiel's voice was a trigger, sparks of another kind began to fly as Dean's temper flared and his head jerked violently back.

"What the hell, Cas? You have a death wish I should know about?"

"I'm sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Dean raged. "Actions have consequences! Did you stop for a moment to think about what you were doing? Did it cross your mind to wonder how I'd feel if you died?"

"Dean, I – "

"You stupid sonofabitch," Dean roared. "Fucking ask for help if you fucking need it!"

"Dean," Sam said cautiously. "Dean... It's only toast."

But it was clearly more than that, and Castiel knew it. Numbly, he remained on the floor as Sam reached down and hauled his sputtering brother to his feet. It took the repeated waving of a hand in his face for Castiel to notice that Sam was offering him assistance too. Wordlessly, he accepted a hand up and stood, head bowed, intently looking down at his sodden clothes.

"Breakfast is getting cold," Bobby observed matter of factly, deftly doling out generous portions of food on four waiting plates. "Sit," he barked when his three companions made no move to join him at the table.

Sam and Dean obediently slid into their seats.

"Cas," Bobby said softly. "Would you bring the coffeepot over?"

Castiel shot the old hunter a grateful glance as he moved to obey. When he also set the surviving burnt offering of toast on the table, Sam quickly suppressed a snort of laughter.

"Sit," Bobby repeated firmly.

Castiel sat.

"Pass the toast, please," Dean muttered.

Castiel accepted this as the only apology Dean was likely to make. It didn't entirely revive his flagging appetite, but at least it allowed him to swallow around the lump which had formed in his throat.

* * *

Dean spent the remainder of the morning tinkering with his car. He appeared back in the house just before noon, looking slightly pink from exposure to the sun, his hands meticulously cleansed of grease and his hair slicked back from a freshly scrubbed face.

"Where's Cas?" he asked, seeing only Bobby and Sam bustling around the kitchen.

"He said something about grabbing a shower," Sam said. "But that was an hour or two ago."

"Hope you told him to take his clothes off first," Bobby chuckled.

"I never thought," Sam said, a stricken look crossing his face. "You don't suppose..."

"He's human, not crazy," Dean snapped. Still, it wouldn't hurt to check up on the guy. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, slowing as he approached the washroom and spotted the wide-open door.

"Cas?" he called, reluctant to intrude on Castiel's privacy. "Cas, you in there?"

There was no reply. Cautiously, Dean peered into the room. The mirror was fogged over, the air still hot and steamy, proving Castiel had indeed recently been there, but there was no sign of the man himself.

He wasn't in any of the other upstairs rooms either, but Dean's duffle was open, its contents moved this way and that, indicating that someone had rummaged though his clothes. Several of Dean's T-shirts and a pair of jeans were missing. Castiel's suit coat and white shirt were also conspicuously absent. His blue necktie trailed forlornly on the floor, half way between the bag and the bedroom door, as if Castiel had dropped it in his haste and not noticed. Dean picked the tie up and stood staring at it blankly.

"Cas?" he called more loudly, clattering back down the stairs. But Castiel wasn't in any of the downstairs rooms either. Nor was he in the panic room.

Dean was beginning to panic a little himself.

"Did he say anything else?" he demanded, thundering back into the kitchen, not realizing until he burst into the room that he still held the tie gripped tightly in his hand.

Sam looked up in surprise, pausing in mid-stir of a savoury smelling stew. "No," he said, brow crinkling as he thought. "I don't think so. In fact, he didn't say much all morning. He pretty much kept to himself." His frown deepened. "I think you hurt his feelings, Dean. You've been so damned nice... and then to rip into him like that out of the blue..."

"Excuse me for objecting to him trying to off himself."

"You have a funny way of showing that you care."

Dean threw his hands into the air and slammed his way back outside, Castiel's tie flapping over his shoulder and the door rattling on its hinges from the force of his furious exit.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Bobby said, stepping up to the stove with a heavily loaded cutting board of chopped vegetables.

"It would appear so," Sam sighed.

"Good," Bobby said. "It's about time."

"What do you mean?"

"Dean's been biting his tongue so hard I'm surprised he hasn't bitten it off. Cas has been tip-toeing around like he's walking on eggshells. It ain't natural. You've seen those idjits squared off in shouting matches, neither one willing to budge an inch. That's just what they need to do now."

"I don't know, Bobby..."

"Take it from an old married man, son. Clear the air, then kiss and make up."

I trust," Sam said wryly, "you don't mean that in a literal sense."

Bobby laughed and dumped the vegetables in the stew. "You never know," he said.

* * *

Bobby's truck was still parked in the welcome shade of an ancient oak tree, and none of his old clunkers were missing, so if Castiel had left the salvage yard, Dean decided, he had done so on his own two feet. Or maybe he had hitched a ride – or been spirited away by someone or something unknown, for nefarious purposes that Dean really didn't want to think about right now. He was already half out of his mind with worry.

Planning to drive into town to start his search for Castiel, Dean headed for the Impala. He had just opened the car door and was about to slip behind the wheel when an unexpected flutter of white caught his eye. Curiosity piqued, Dean quietly closed the door and began to pick a torturous route around stacks of car bodies, heading towards the line of trees that stood on a little hill at the far edge of Bobby's property. A second flutter of black cloth – Castiel's dress pants, Dean noted, arching an eyebrow in surprise – came into view, swiftly followed by a glimpse of the Zeppelin T-shirt that Dean had let Castiel borrow.

"What the hell?" Dean muttered as he warily drifted closer, the better to examine the mysteriously floating clothes. Suspiciously, he peered around the final mound of cars...

And there was Castiel, leaning over a battered plastic bin as he picked up another item of clothing. He was wearing one of the missing T-shirts and an old pair of Dean's jeans, the cuffs rolled midway to his knees. His bare feet rustled contentedly through the sparse grass of the knoll as he moved back and forth along the improvised clothesline he had strung up between two sturdy trees. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair, and dappled sunlight caressed the thickening stubble on his face.

Dean's heart stuttered in his breast, his mind flashing forward to that other, human Castiel of 2014: the self-destructive hippy... the drugged up sex guru... the tragic and bitter figure Dean had sworn he would never let his Cas become. But here the mirror image of that man stood before him, not fallen nearly so far as his future self – not yet, anyway – but, oh, he was so very vulnerable looking. So very human. And three years wasn't all that far away...

He must have made a noise, perhaps the whimper caught deep in his throat somehow managed to escape and betray his presence, because Castiel's head abruptly turned towards him and – _Thank, God,_ Dean sighed – bright and unclouded blue eyes pinned him with a sharp glance.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said calmly, breaking eye contact as he turned to drape a pair of socks over the line.

"I – I thought you were gone," Dean whispered. "I thought I'd driven you away."

"Why would you think that?" Castiel asked, honest puzzlement in his voice as he bent to pick up a dripping wet flannel shirt. Casually efficient, he wrung out the excess water and hung the shirt on the line.

"It would be the smart thing for you to do," Dean said quietly. "Getting as far away from me and Sam as you can. Starting a life somewhere. Being normal. Being safe."

"Dean?" The piercing gaze was back in full force, a frown creasing Castiel's forehead as he intently studied the tormented expression frozen on Dean's face. And, then, without the faintest trace of hesitation or concern for propriety, he swiftly crossed the distance between them and wrapped Dean in a fiercely protective hug.

"W-what?" Dean stammered, the word muffled against a broad, warm shoulder, the side of the hunter's face pressed so snugly against Castiel's neck that he could feel the pulse of Castiel's heart, its slow and steady beat in marked contrast to the mad tempo of his own.

"I will not make the mistake of abandoning you again, Dean," Castiel stated firmly. "If you want me to leave, you will have to tell me to go." His arms tightened as if in dread of the very thought. "Please promise you won't ask that of me."

Dean's arms stealing up around him to return the hug was his reply. And for a few long, quiet moments the two men let the world spin on its way without them.

* * *

"You're different, this time 'round, Cas," Dean said several minutes later, helping Castiel hang the remainder of their clothing up to dry.

"What do you mean?" Castiel tilted his head, an achingly familiar gesture that made the hard-nosed hunter suddenly feel all warm and buttery soft inside.

Dean smiled. "Let's just say that being human has never made you a happy camper."

"Ah... Yes, that is true. It was true."

"So... what's changed? Doesn't being human still suck? I mean, you've been demoted big time, dude. Downgraded from god to mud monkey all in the same day. That's got to hurt, man."

Castiel shook his head in quick denial. "My Father has generously blessed me with my continued existence not once, not twice, but three times now. How can I be anything but grateful? And a good part of that gratitude goes to you, Dean. I would not be here this time if it were not for you."

Dean's smile widened as he playfully grabbed Castiel's hand and held it up between them. "Then you wouldn't have prune fingers from hand-laundering my clothes."

"I wouldn't have hands at all," Castiel smiled in return.

"And where the hell did you learn to do laundry, anyway? You been reading _Good Housekeeping_ behind my back, Cas?" Dean teased.

"I have observed generations of women beating clothes on rocks at the water's edge," Castiel replied loftily. "Filling a bathtub with soapy water does not take a vast stretch of one's imagination."

Dean held up Castiel's suit coat and peered at it dubiously. "None of those women thought to check the label before washing, huh?"

Castiel shot him a sheepish glance.

"Good thing you dropped your tie," Dean chuckled, flipping the end of it up from where it dangled safely in its rightful place on Castiel's chest. "Even I know silk is dry clean – or angel zap – only."

"It would appear I still have much to learn," Castiel allowed, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"We both do," Dean replied. "Maybe we can help each other out along the way?"

"I think I'd like that."

"And maybe I can make the past year up to you."

"Dean... You owe me nothing. It is my debt to you that is incalculable."

"No, it goes both ways," Dean argued. "Just as there's blame on both sides."

"Dean – "

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," Dean blurted, the words, once started, tumbling off his tongue in a cascade he found impossible to halt. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you with your war, that I kept making demands that further weakened you, that I took for granted all you did for me. But, most of all, I'm sorry that I ever gave you cause to doubt how much I care, how much I – "

"No, Dean. You have it wrong. I told you lie on top of lie. I made bad decisions with the best of intentions, and in my pride I thought I was strong enough to handle a power too terrible to bear. But there is one thing I never once lied about: I did it, all of it, for you. Not to bring peace to Heaven, not for personal glory... but for _you_. To keep you safe. And I'm sorry for everything else that happened, but I will never apologize for that."

Somehow, Dean noted absently, their hands had once again migrated together, their fingers tangled now, each man clinging to the other as if the simple touch was a lifeline, anchoring them in a stormy sea. It felt so good... It felt so right...

"Shouldn't you be doing your glowy thing?" Dean asked gruffly. "I don't know what you're waiting for. The moment can't possibly get any more perfectly chick flick than this."

"Are you saying you forgive me?"

"Maybe a little," Dean smiled.

Castiel gently eased his hand free from Dean's warm grasp and slid it underneath the sleeve of Dean's T-shirt until his fingers found his mark. His eyes closed in concentration then, as did Dean's, but after a few minutes of absolutely nothing happening, both men opened their eyes and met each other's questioning gaze.

Dean's smile faded. "It didn't work," he whispered disappointedly.

"It doesn't matter," Castiel said, no trace of disappointment in his voice, his hand instinctively moving back down to recapture Dean's. "It is enough to be alive. To be here, with you, on a beautiful day in a world that holds infinite possibilities."

"But I want to forgive you," Dean said. "I really do. Maybe not with my whole heart... not yet. But what I feel now is a damned good beginning. Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me that this feeling isn't real. It is, I know it is!"

"Dean..."

"How the hell am I supposed to help you get your wings back if I have no control over – "

"Dean!" Castiel said sharply, interrupting the hunter in mid-rant.

"What?" Dean snapped.

"I think... I think I may be glowing."

And he was. Not just his hand, but his entire body was emitting a shimmering aura that bathed him in holy light from head to toe.

"Oh," Dean breathed, involuntarily leaning closer, irresistibly drawn to the transcendent being that stood before him.

Once again, Castiel's hand sought out the handprint on Dean's shoulder. And, as his grip grew tighter, so too did the glow expand and intensify until it enveloped them both in a radiant sphere that pulsed in rhythm with every quickening beat of the former angel's heart.

This time, aware of what was happening to him and therefore prepared for the encounter, Castiel felt no pain or confusion as he interacted with his lost Grace. Instead, he embraced the moment, his blue eyes locked with Dean's green, both men willingly surrendering to an all encompassing sense of bliss which lingered long after the glow flickered and was gone.

The cut the angel sword had left on Castiel's forearm was healed. The mild headache which had plagued him since breakfast time had vanished. He felt... revitalized. The air smelled fresher, sweeter. The cloudless sky was myriad shades of blue, not the flat blue of a child's crayon drawing that it had been this morning. As for the swirl of colours and emotion in Dean's eyes...

_Beautiful,_ Castiel thought. _He's beautiful with his face lit up like that, so trusting and open. He doesn't need my Grace to make him shine. I don't need to be an angel to see the purity of his soul. Truly, God must look down upon His Righteous Man and smile... Oh, Father! That's it! I know how and why it happens!_

"Oh, God," Dean repeated – and, much to his startled surprise, Castiel's warm hand quickly pressed itself against his mouth, sealing his lips shut.

"Prayer, Dean," Castiel whispered in an awestruck tone. "It is the Mercy of your prayer that brings my Grace back to me."

Dean gently pried at Castiel's fingers until they fell away. "But I wasn't praying," he said.

"You spoke my Father's name and He answered your plea."

"Oh, great. I have direct dial to God, now?"

"That I do not know. But, clearly, if you grant me forgiveness and invoke His name, He does reply."

"Well... good, then. I'm glad we got that little mystery figured out." Dean stared at Castiel appraisingly. "So... are you all juiced up with Grace? I'm feeling pretty good, myself."

"I am human – an exceptionally healthy human – but human all the same."

"No wings yet?" Dean circled around Castiel, patting his hand across his back, as if expecting to feel little nubs poking their way out through the thin fabric of his faded black T-shirt. "Not a single feather?"

"No," Castiel snorted. "Apparently, I still have a way to go until you are no longer 'seriously pissed' at me."

"In that case," Dean grinned, lightly rapping his knuckles on Castiel's chest, just to the left of his sternum, "Let's take care of business the old fashioned way."

"Dean?"

"Let's go get you a tattoo. We can't have you wandering around without protection. We'll whip you up some fake ID too. Credit cards, driver's licence, FBI, the works. Hell, I'll even set you up with Book-of-the-Month Club. What name would you like to use? Castiel Novak has a nice ring to it."

"I would be honoured to adopt Jimmy's name," Castiel said softly.

"Good," Dean nodded. "That's your primary ID taken care of, but we should probably make up a couple of alternates while we're at it. You never know when they might prove useful. Any suggestions?"

"Cas Jagger?" Castiel suggested shyly.

Dean laughed and draped a friendly arm across Castiel's shoulders as he began to shepherd him back towards the house. "Cas Jagger it is," he said. "I've already met the guy, and I really liked him. Maybe he and I could grab a beer sometime?"


	5. Into the Wilderness

Castiel swiped a corner of a towel across the fogged up bathroom mirror, leaving the glass streaked with beads of condensation but still clear enough for him to see his reflection. Then, just as he had been instructed, he lathered up his face and slowly began to wield a safety razor, the first few awkward strokes quickly settling into a rhythmic scrape of blade against thick stubble. Pleased with his progress, Castiel allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. He was definitely getting better at this supposedly simple task. Soon, he would be every bit as proficient at it as was Dean or Sam. In the meantime... practice made perfect. And if he clumsily happened to nick his skin every now and then, well, it was highly unlikely he would bleed to death. Not from so trivial an injury.

As if jinxed by the thought, Castiel winced as he misjudged the tilt of the blade and a bright red blossom of blood spread through the white cloud of foam covering his jaw. Gritting his teeth, brow furrowed in renewed concentration, he adjusted his grasp on the razor and tried again. Several relatively painless minutes later, he was done.

Sighing slightly, he blotted his face dry with the towel and assessed the damage. Only four cuts this morning. Carefully, he dotted his face with four tiny pieces of toilet paper. The little trick Dean had taught him seemed to be very effective, though it left him feeling rather foolish. But a minor loss of dignity was a small price to pay if it prevented the look of quiet desperation that always crossed Dean's face whenever Castiel's stubble approached anything close to beard length. He didn't understand this illogical reaction. It was only hair. Left to his own devices, he would gladly have let his beard grow. But if his shaving somehow eased Dean's mind, he would equally gladly shave. It was a small enough sacrifice of his time. And, truth be told, he rather enjoyed the approving glance Dean always cast his way whenever he appeared clean shaven.

_What does he see when he looks at me?_ Castiel wondered, not for the first time. _The man that I am becoming... or the angel that I used to be?_

Silently, he stared at his reflection, trying to read anything in the sombre blue eyes that looked back at him beyond the obvious confusion that so often plagued him.

_How can I know what he thinks when I do not know what to think of myself?_ he mused. _That he thinks of me at all will have to be enough..._

Castiel's gaze slowly travelled down the mirror to the anti-possession tattoo which adorned his breast. It was healing nicely. A few more days and he should no longer need to anoint it, though Dean had been most emphatic about the need to keep it moisturized. Castiel sighed again, and gingerly applied a light layer of lotion. A more liberal application of deodorant and aftershave and a vain attempt to tame his unruly hair concluded his morning ritual. Caring for a human body was a lot of work. He had thought eating and sleeping would be the only maintenance necessary. Clearly he had been wrong, it was one humiliating demand after another...

"Cas?" A sharp knock accompanied the name. "Cas? You fall asleep in there? I have to use the can."

"I'll be out in a minute, Dean," Castiel replied. Quickly, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and knotted a towel around his waist before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway.

In the brief moment when they stood face to face, Dean's glance skittered from Castiel's chin to his chest, down to the precariously hanging towel and back up to his eyes before he pushed past, his shoulder lightly brushing against Castiel's. "You better have left me some hot water this time," he grumbled.

The door slammed shut behind him.

"Good morning to you, too, Dean," Castiel muttered. Slipping into Dean's bedroom and helping himself to one of Dean's T-shirts, he quickly pulled on the rest of his own clothes and padded down the stairs in search of breakfast.

* * *

Sam was already seated at the kitchen table when Castiel entered the room, his nose buried in the morning paper, the remnants of his breakfast shoved aside to give him more elbow room. "Mornin', Dean," he mumbled.

Castiel turned to look at the hunter in concerned surprise, his hand frozen in mid-reach for the coffee pot. "Good morning, Sam," he greeted cautiously. "But I am not Dean."

"W-what?" Sam's head shot up and a slow smile spread across his face as he realized the cause of his mistake. "Oh... Good morning, Cas."

Castiel appeared relieved at being correctly identified though, judging from the angle of his head tilt, he had not yet worked out the reason for either Sam's earlier confusion or his present amusement.

"You smell like Dean," Sam said as if that explained everything.

"And that is a bad thing?" Castiel asked seriously. "I find your brother's scent to be most pleasing. I was unaware that you find it distasteful."

"No, no, Cas," Sam laughed. "It's just that you've used his soap and aftershave. And I caught a glimpse of his T-shirt out of the corner of my eye, so I jumped to the conclusion that Dean had just entered the room." Sam's amusement faded. "As a hunter, I should know better than to make assumptions like that. Maybe... Maybe I'm not..." he faltered into silence.

"Are you all right, Sam?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. But..." He shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder if I've lost my edge. I can't afford to do that. Not in this business."

"You are in a familiar place, protected by wards of every kind. I think you can allow yourself to let your guard down here," Castiel offered in a soothing tone. A sudden frown creased his forehead. "Unless you feel that I still pose a danger..."

"No. Maybe. I'm sorry, Cas, I know you're really trying to redeem yourself. It's just... it's not easy putting it all behind me."

"I understand. And I am sorry, Sam. If I could, you know that I would snap my fingers and make everything all better."

"I think I've seen enough finger snapping to last me a lifetime," Sam said wryly.

"Of course," Castiel said, his eyes dropping to the floor and a touch of pink sweeping across his cheeks. "I'm sorr – "

"I've heard enough I'm sorrys too," Sam interrupted gently. "I'm okay, Cas. I still have a few things to work out... but it's me doing the fixing, not some supernatural being slapping a band-aid on me. That means any progress I make is real. And that's more than okay with me."

"Oh..." Castiel said weakly. "That is... very forgiving of you, Sam."

"Hey, it's not like I'm the only injured party here. Let's not forget I tried my best to kill you."

"You were trying to save your brother. I can only commend your action. There is nothing to forgive."

"Any threat to Dean deserves no show of mercy?" Sam said carefully.

"Yes," Cas answered without hesitation. "_Any_ threat... including myself. If I should prove to be other than what I think I am... if there is some lingering taint inside me that suddenly poses a danger... I beg you, Sam. Do not hesitate. Destroy me."

"Cas..."

"Promise me, Sam. Promise you will keep Dean safe at any cost."

"I promise," Sam whispered.

"Good," Castiel said, nodding his approval as he filled a bowl with milk and cereal and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"You do know that Dean will never forgive me if I carry out that promise?"

"He will always forgive you, Sam. You are his brother." Castiel pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table, all his attention given over to not spilling his breakfast as he brought the spoon to his mouth.

_But I'm not the guy who thinks he smells good,_ Sam thought before slowly turning his eyes back to his paper.

* * *

"Morning, Sammy!" Dean carolled, barreling into the silent room and making Sam wonder how on earth he had ever mistaken Castiel for this rambunctious creature. A rough hand ruffled Sam's hair before snatching half the newspaper from his grasp. A broad grin met Sam's glare, and Dean tucked the paper under his arm before quickly backing away from his long-armed brother's reach.

Those few quick steps carried Dean to Castiel's side of the table. Again his hand swept out, this time snagging Castiel's coffee mug. Dean took a few quick gulps and made a face. "You use too much sugar," he complained.

"My apologies, Dean. I was unaware I was preparing _my_ coffee to _your_ liking. Shall I fix a cup that's more to your taste?"

"Nah, I'll get it." Dean set the mug back on the table, and smirked at Castiel. "You missed a bit," he said, tapping his own face to indicate the location.

"A bit of what?" Castiel said.

"Toilet paper," Dean grinned.

Castiel's hand brushed at his face ineffectively.

"No, not there. There. No... here. Oh for heaven's sake!" Dean licked his thumb and gently scrubbed it against Castiel's chin. "There you go," he said, strolling off towards the coffee pot.

"You should have said something," Castiel said, turning a stern gaze on Sam.

"I didn't notice," Sam replied honestly. _And I certainly wouldn't have licked it off your face if I had,_ he chortled to himself.

* * *

"So... where's Bobby?" Dean said a few minutes later, plopping himself in the chair next to Castiel, his elbow grazing against Castiel's arm each time he reached for his coffee mug or shovelled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"In town," Sam replied. "He grumbled something about the three of us eating him out of house and home."

"He has a point," Dean said, chewing noisily. "It's going on four weeks. We don't usually hang around that long. Maybe it's time we moved on."

"You mean return to hunting?" Sam said uncertainly.

"Why not? Cas' training is coming along nicely. He's a pretty good shot now – he just needs to work on reloading the gun a little faster. No one can beat him at reciting an exorcism or whipping off a handy translation. His sword play is better than mine, and he can knock me flat on my back in hand to hand combat if I don't keep a close eye on his tricky ass."

"My ass is tricky? That is why you watch it?"

"Figure of speech, Cas," Dean said patting him lightly on the thigh. "Figure of speech."

Sam snorted.

"Whaddya say?" Dean coaxed. "We can start out small. Do a few day trips or overnighters and see how it goes. There's only so much we can teach him here. There's nothing like first hand field experience. Besides, it could be fun. Right, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said eagerly.

"A change of scene might be nice," Sam agreed.

"Then it's settled. Find us a hunt, Sam."

Sam loped out of the kitchen in search of his computer.

"Wash or dry?" Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel's and nodded towards the dishes.

"Wash," Castiel said decisively, bumping him back.

By the time Sam returned, a list of prospective hunts in hand, the dishes were mostly clean. The kitchen floor, on the other hand, definitely needed mopping thanks to Castiel flicking blobs of soapy water at Dean in retaliation for Dean's repeated snapping of the dish towel on his backside.

* * *

It didn't take long for them to settle on a hunt. When Dean saw the way Castiel's face lit up as he silently mouthed the word 'Faith', he immediately cast his vote in favour of heading to Faith, South Dakota. Castiel asked for so little now that he was human. How could Dean deny him this? Besides, Faith met all the criteria for being a suitable destination. It wasn't all that far away: a mere four hundred twenty-eight miles, a good portion of that clear sailing on the I-90. A five or six hour drive in total, if all went well. Just long enough to get his baby's motor running. And, added bonus, it was a simple salt and burn. An old cowboy's ghost was taking exception to people tearing down his ramshackle house to make way for a dude ranch. So... find the grave, dig up the bones... bada bing, bada boom. They'd be belly up to the bar at the local saloon before you could say 'yeehaw!'

It sounded like a perfect plan.

Dean should have known perfect didn't much figure in a Winchester's life.

Trouble started before they finished loading up the car.

Sam leaned into the backseat and pulled out Castiel's trench coat, dangling it between two crooked fingers. "What should I do with this?" he said, nose wrinkling at the blood stains and dirt encrusting the garment.

Castiel froze like a deer trapped in headlights, eyes widening with trepidation at this physical manifestation of his past sins.

"Throw it in the trash," Bobby recommended.

"No!" Dean said. "I want – Cas wants to keep it, don't you, Cas?"

"I – I – " Castiel floundered.

"He has better sense than that," Bobby snorted. "Why the hell would he want to keep that dirty old thing?"

"Because..." Dean trailed off helplessly. _Because I don't want to let it go. Because it's a part of him. Because every time I thought I couldn't go on, I'd catch a glimpse of that damned coat and I'd know everything was going to be okay..._

"Because?" Sam said impatiently.

"Because I said so," Dean snapped, grabbing the coat out of his brother's hands and wadding it up into a ball. "I'll just toss it in the trunk until we can get it cleaned."

"If it can be cleaned..." Sam frowned. "Those stains have really set, Dean."

"It can be cleaned," Dean said stubbornly. "Cas can zap it when he gets his wings."

"If he gets his wings."

"When, Sam. When he gets 'em." Dean shoved the trench coat as far to the back of the trunk as it would go and terminated the discussion with a fierce slam of the lid.

"Call shotgun," he murmured angrily to a somewhat dazed looking Castiel.

"Shotgun?" Castiel inquired.

"You got it," Dean nodded. "You ride in the back, Sam."

"Oh, come on, Dean. That isn't fair. He doesn't even know what shotgun means."

"He still called it," Dean snapped.

"There's no leg room back there."

"I don't mind sitting in the backseat, Dean."

"Will you two shut the fuck up and get in the car!" Dean bellowed.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby muttered. "Fun times ahead. You sure a couple of days is all you idjits need for this job? I don't mind if it takes longer."

* * *

Sam sulked for a solid hour, bitch face number seven ('my brother kicks puppies') filling the rear view mirror each time Dean cast a glance his way. Castiel rode in silence too, his eyes firmly on the road as the miles stole past, his face impassive even though Dean had cranked his music up way past the comfortable level for such an enclosed space as the Impala.

As they entered into the second hour, Sam pulled out his laptop and began to study the information he had downloaded before they left. Castiel's head bobbed a few times before he leaned it against the side window and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out and he was fast asleep. Dean lowered the volume to a pleasant background murmur, his hand brushing against Castiel's arm as he moved it from the dial to the steering wheel. Castiel sighed and slipped deeper into slumber, his eyes flickering back and forth under his closed eyelids.

"It says here, that Franklin Palmerson had quite the spread at one time," Sam offered quietly. "Twelve hundred head of cattle, four thousand acres. Nice house, a pretty wife, four kids, all sons. He lost it all to the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Three of his sons died from tuberculosis. His wife mysteriously disappeared in 1935. The bank foreclosed on the farm a year later. Palmerson died in 1943, shortly after receiving word that his only remaining son had been killed in battle. Possible suicide, but it was never proven."

"That's quite the run of bad luck." Dean whistled softly. "No wonder ol' Frank doesn't much care for a bunch of rich dudes tromping around on his broken dreams."

"Yeah..." Sam said distractedly, and frowned.

"Problem?" Dean said, picking up on his brother's unease.

"Maybe... The land's passed from hand to hand several times, just used for pasture. The house has been left to rot since 1936, it was in pretty rough shape by then. Bar None Co-op bought the property two years ago, and construction's been moving along just fine, not a single glitch. The new ranch house and outbuildings are completed... caretakers have been living there for several weeks now. No one reported anything strange. Then, the very morning a bulldozer touched the old house, all hell broke loose. Cattle stampeded – two men were seriously injured. A fire broke out in the cookhouse. Anything that wasn't tied down started flying around as if a twister hit. The man driving the bulldozer suffered a fatal heart attack..."

"Sounds to me like Frank woke up grumpy. Textbook classic example of an angry spirit."

"Yeah..." Sam agreed.

"But?"

"The timing seems off to me."

"Huh..."

"Just a feeling," Sam muttered defensively.

"Hunter's instincts. Don't knock 'em," Dean said. "Okay, Sam, we'll check out the house as well as salt and burn Frank."

"Burns!" Castiel yelled, bolting upright and startling Dean so badly that the car swerved over the centre line before he brought it back under control. "It burns! It burns!" His hands beat at his clothing as if invisible flames licked at his skin.

Dean slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel to the right, sending the car to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road.

"Cas!" he cried, trying to capture the wildly flailing hands before Castiel could seriously injure either himself or Dean. "Cas, wake up! You're dreaming, man."

"Holy oil," Castiel whimpered, blue eyes open, but obviously unaware of anything but the horror of the dream. "It burns and I can't push through it. I can't get to Dean."

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam said.

"Lucifer..." Castiel's voice cracked on the name. "He's drawn a circle around me. He's going to kill Dean. And I can't get though the fire. I can't. I can't."

"Cas!" Dean drew the trembling man into an awkward one-armed hug. "Lucifer's in the Cage. I'm right here. I'm okay. We're both okay. Stay with me, Cas."

"No oil? No fire?"

"No oil. No fire."

"Dean?"

"Yes."

"Dean..." A shuddering sigh shook Castiel as his eyes focused and he became aware of his surroundings: the concern in Dean's green eyes as he peered intently at his face; the satisfying weight of Dean's arm across his shoulders; a worried Sam looming over them both, ready to lend support but not quite knowing where to begin. "It was just a dream?" he whispered.

"Yeah. A nightmare."

"It isn't night," Castiel said shakily. "I thought it would be safe to sleep."

"You've been having bad dreams?"

"A few. None this severe. I try not to sleep too long or too deeply. It helps keep the dreams away."

"You can't run on a few hours sleep each night," Dean gently chided.

"You do," Castiel countered.

"Yeah... well... That's just me."

"Dreams torment you too." It was not a question. Castiel knew all too well the visions that plagued Dean's slumber.

"It's just the way things are," Dean murmured. "I can't remember the last good night's sleep I had."

It was a lie. Dean knew it the moment the words left his lips. He remembered all too well. He remembered the tender warmth wrapped around him, Castiel's body cradling him, warding off the demons of his past...

Self-consciously, he drew his arm away, placing both hands firmly on the steering wheel, ignoring the little sway into vacated space Castiel inadvertently made as the contact was withdrawn.

Sam settled back in place and picked up his abandoned laptop.

Dean sighed and fluidly pulled the car back into the flow of traffic, doing his best to ignore the unblinking stare Castiel turned upon him.

_Does he remember too?_ he wondered, fidgeting with the dial until loud music once again filled the heavy silence which had fallen upon them. _Does he know how often I think about that night?_

* * *

It was early afternoon when they rolled into town, the big wrought iron sign proclaiming 'Welcome to Faith, est. 1910' standing stark against the endless prairie sky. 'Home Town of Sue, T-rex Capital of the World,' a smaller wooden sign declared. Dean flashed a grin Castiel's way. "Admit it, Cas," he said. "You have a thing for dinosaurs. That's really why we're here."

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said dryly. "I lust after their bones. I miss the thrill of watching them endlessly lumber around the primordial forest."

"Whoa," Sam said softly. "Dinosaurs? Really, Cas? That's awesome."

"Maybe we can go visit some of his old girlfriends at the museum later," Dean teased. "Right now, I say we talk to a few people, and check out the lay of the land. How secure is the construction site?"

"They closed it down and cleared everybody out until an insurance investigator can perform an inspection," Sam said.

"Well, isn't this their lucky day," Dean drawled. "We just happen to be insurance investigators."

"All three of us?" Sam raised a questioning brow.

"I guess not," Dean replied. "Just the two of us who still have decent suits to wear. Sorry, Cas. You're going to have to sit this one out."

"You're turning him loose on the town? Alone?"

"He won't hurt anybody!"

"I was actually more concerned about what they might do to him." Sam grinned. "He's not exactly your average tourist."

"Huh, you have a point..." Dean gave the matter careful thought. "Okay... How's this? You go play insurance investigator. Cas and I will snoop around town, check out the library and church records, and see if we can find out where Palmerson is buried. I'll book a room at the Branding Iron Inn and we can meet up there in a few hours, compare notes and come up with a plan for tonight."

"Right." Sam nodded. "I'll phone you when I'm done."

* * *

It didn't take long to get the information they needed, so it was inevitable that Dean's mind turned to thoughts of his empty stomach as the clock neared 4:00 pm. Unfortunately, Sam had the car, there was no diner or fast food joint in this small, backwaters town and the motel's modest restaurant was closed until 6:00 pm. Dean couldn't wait that long to rustle up some grub. So he and Cas wandered aimlessly up and down Faith's streets, taking in the sights and enjoying the sunny August day until they chanced upon a place called M & D Food Shop. There they bought some dry-looking prepackaged sandwiches, a six-pack, several chocolate bars and a big bag of potato chips. They were seated side by side on one of the beds back at the motel, watching TV and munching happily on the chips, when Sam walked in the door, sweating heavily in his suit and pulling at his tie.

"How was your day, dear?" Dean said sweetly.

Sam threw the tie in his face. "I hate cows," he said. "Big, stupid, smelly cows. They're everywhere. Like a plague of locusts. Stomping on your feet, dropping stinky piles for you to step in. Big, sad eyes staring at you, judging you, and..."

Big, sad blue eyes stared at Sam reproachfully.

"What? Oh, fine, Cas. I don't hate cows. They're one of God's most beautiful creations. Happy now?"

Castiel blinked and offered Sam a can of beer.

"So?" Dean said impatiently, clicking off the TV. "What's the story?"

"The EMF reading was off the chart," Sam said, stripping down to his undershirt and dress pants. He settled himself on the other bed, kicking off his shoes as he pulled the tab and gratefully took a deep swallow of cold beer. "There's definitely something there worth checking out. How'd you guys do?"

"Palmerson's buried in St. Joseph Cemetery, a couple of miles west of Faith, just off Route 212."

"That's on the way to the ranch."

"So, we salt and burn Frank, then check out the house?" Dean said. "Sun sets today at 7:50 pm. Sunrise tomorrow's at 6:02. That gives us plenty of time."

"I hope you saved me something to eat," Sam said, looking at the stack of empty wrappers on the nightstand.

"Don't I always?" Dean said, tossing him a pastrami on rye.

"Where's my usual ham and cheese?" Sam grumbled.

"Cas ate it. He doesn't like pastrami."

"Hey!" Sam said indignantly. "There's a bite taken out of this sandwich!"

* * *

The Palmerson's family plot was fortunately at the rear of the cemetery, in an older, seldom visited and poorly tended section. It took the better part of two hours to excavate the grave, the three men taking it in turns to dig or stand watch. Not a flicker of activity registered on the EMF meter the entire time.

Franklin looked much as one would expect a sixty-eight year old corpse to look. Sam sprinkled salt and gasoline over the coffin, Dean set the body on fire and Castiel stood, head bowed, mouthing the words of a prayer.

As the flames died, Dean's eyes met Sam's across the smouldering grave. "That was easy," he said.

"Too easy," Sam replied. "I think we have the wrong man."

Dean nodded. "Let's fill it back in and check out the house. If Frank was the ghost, it should be clean now."

"And if he wasn't, we're back to square one." Sam sighed. "Who else would care enough about that shack to haunt it?"

"Could be one of his sons," Dean said, beginning to shovel dirt back into the grave.

"Or the wife," Castiel suggested, grabbing a second shovel and assisting Dean.

"She left town," Sam said. "Probably ran off to the big city to start a new life."

"The records never said precisely how or why she vanished," Castiel pointed out.

"He's right, Sam. It's possible Frank snapped and killed her. Being murdered is enough to piss anyone off."

"Could be a real challenge finding her bones," Sam muttered.

"She's in the house," Castiel said, certainty in his voice. "It is her home and she is naturally possessive of it."

"It's as good a place as any to start," Dean said, patting a final shovelful of soil into place.

* * *

The EMF went crazy the minute they stepped out of the car. Sam swivelled the meter back and forth, trying to pinpoint the source of the reading.

"In there," he said finally, pointing to the house.

Dean nobly refrained from saying 'I told you so' on Castiel's behalf. Instead, he unloaded a couple of shovels from the Impala's trunk, passing them over to Castiel's waiting hand. Sam shouldered a bag of salt. Dean carried the can of gas, sloshing the liquid from side to side to evaluate how much remained. Hopefully there would be enough if they had need of it. Armed with shotguns loaded with rounds of salt, and carrying heavy duty flashlights, the three men slowly approached what remained of the old Palmerson residence.

Dean warily eyed the bulldozer still embedded in splintered wood. "Heart attack, huh?" he said. "The force is strong in this one, young Skywalker. Yoda, mind what you have learned."

Treading gingerly on spongy boards, avoiding the places where the wood had rotted though entirely, they carefully climbed the stairs and crossed the sagging porch. The front door opened with a banshee screech of rusted hinges.

"So much for the silent approach," Dean murmured.

"It will go faster if we split up," Sam suggested.

Dean nodded reluctantly. "I'll look around upstairs. Cas, you check out this level. Sam..."

"I know, I know. Take the basement. Why do I always get the basement?"

"Hey, you already reek of cow poop. What's a little mildew and cellar dust compared to that?"

Stashing the shovels, gas and salt in the entryway, the three men began their search.

* * *

Dean moved quickly but efficiently from room to room, finding nothing of interest in the dusty, cobwebbed corners and shadowy reaches. He was just about to head back to the staircase when a shotgun blast sounded from the floor below. Heart pounding in his chest, Dean sprinted down the stairs, vaulting over the rail as he neared the final few steps. He cast his gaze back and forth, uncertain which way to turn, until a second shot echoed from the next room over, followed by a resounding crash and a muffled cry of pain from Castiel.

Dean tore down the hall and burst into the heart of any country home: the kitchen. The instant temperature drop as he passed through the doorway confirmed a spirit's presence, but where the hell was Castiel? The narrow beam of Dean's flashlight arced wildly around the room, illuminating peeling wallpaper and the vapour cloud of his own breath.

"Cas!" he called.

An answering, ragged gasp sounded off to his left. Dean directed a beam of light downward towards the source of the sound and there, laid flat out on the floor, a desperate Castiel was attempting to hold a writhing ghost at bay.

Mrs. Palmerson had been a beautiful woman once upon a time. Horrendous best described her now. Her face sagged under the weight of its remaining flesh, and her body was gaunt to the point of being skeletal. Vivid hand prints encircled her slender neck, suggesting strangulation had been the cause of her demise. Her phosphorescent eyes showed little trace of sanity, and nothing at all of humanity. She was a feral, malignant creature. Pure energy devoted to a single cause: defence of her home.

"Hey!" Dean shouted, hoping to draw attention to himself, unable to open fire because of the spirit's close proximity to Castiel. "You, there. Bitch!"

The ghost's head lifted and turned for a brief moment, but she made no move to leave her victim. It was more than enough of an opportunity for Dean, however. His gun cracked once and Mrs. Palmerson vanished with a harpy's shriek of utter fury.

"Cas, are you okay?" Dean swiftly crossed the room, eager to get the ex-angel back on his feet before the ghost inevitably rematerialized.

"I am fine," Castiel said, coughing slightly.

Dean turned the flashlight on Castiel's face. Deep fingernail gouges scored his forehead and cheeks, and angry purple bruises formed a ring around his throat.

"Dude, you got beat up by a girl!"

Castiel shot the hunter an annoyed look as he retrieved his dropped gun and flashlight and scrambled to his feet. "She is fast," he said, finally. "And preternaturally strong... like I used to be."

"We'll just have to outsmart her, then," Dean said. A gentle hand reached out to intercept the trickle of blood that was heading for Castiel's eye. Absentmindedly, he wiped his fingers on his shirt and returned his hand to Castiel's face, turning it this way and that to better inspect the damage, the touch lingering long after the inspection was done.

"Dean? Cas?" Sam hollered, pounding his way up the cellar stairs.

Dean startled back from Castiel, instantly snapping into full hunter mode: eyes sweeping from left to right, shotgun at the ready.

"Here, Sam!" he replied.

"I found a grave," Sam panted. "It's in the root cellar. We need the shovels and – "

A howl of outrage interrupted his words as the ghost once again launched herself at Castiel. Dean's quick shot disintegrated the amorphous being before it could lay a bony finger on him. "What the hell?" he said. "Why does she have the hots for you?"

"Perhaps it is because I am – I was – an angel. Something within her must recognize my otherness, and know it for the danger it poses to her continued existence."

"Huh," Dean said. "That must be it."

"Or maybe she just likes blue eyes," Castiel continued thoughtfully. "I have been told mine are an exceptional shade of blue."

"Who the fuck told you that?" Dean demanded.

"Guys..." Sam interrupted. "Can you have that conversation later? We have a job to do."

* * *

Despite its shallowness, digging up the grave was not an easy task. Time after time, all of the spirit's pent up wrath and power was focused upon Castiel. After the fourth vicious attack, Sam and Dean gave up on digging and handed the shovel over to Castiel. As he quickly laboured to uncover the body, the two hunters stood guard, firing off shot after shot to keep him safe from the persistent ghostly menace.

Finally, the woman's corpse was revealed. As Castiel spread salt and gasoline over the remains, Mrs. Palmerson put in a final appearance, her arms stretched out towards Castiel as if to lure him back with her to the netherworld. Castiel swiftly set the grave ablaze. With a final, ear-splitting shriek of despair, the ghost faded and was gone.

"That was fun," Sam said.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean and Castiel chorused.

* * *

It was a little after 3:00 am when the Impala rumbled back into the Branding Iron Inn's parking lot.

Sam tumbled into bed without bothering to remove his clothes, leaving Castiel and Dean to stand and stare at each other across the narrow span of the remaining bed.

Dean gave a little shrug and pulled back the covers on his side. Toeing off his boots he crawled in and patted the empty half of the bed invitingly. "Kill the lights, would you, Cas?" he said casually, and yawned.

After a brief hesitation, Castiel hastened to comply. The dull thud of his shoes hitting the floor was curiously loud in the silence of the darkened room. Dean felt the mattress dip as, with a little rustle of sheets, Castiel settled himself beneath the covers. And there they lay, each man flat on his back, open eyes staring up at the ceiling, their bodies carefully perched on opposite edges of the bed like two frightened virgins – though Dean was pretty sure only one of them qualified for that status.

"What the hell," Dean murmured, sudden laughter bubbling up in his breast at the ridiculousness of the situation. He rolled and faced his bedmate, his arm reaching out until his hand rested warm and heavy on Castiel's chest. "Oh, God," he whispered, very deliberately.

Castiel turned to face him, his hand blindly seeking the mark on Dean's shoulder as he inched himself closer to his lodestone, gratefully accepting the offer of forgiveness.

"Oh, God!" Sam exclaimed disgustedly, pulling a pillow over his head. "Can you guys keep that damned glow down to a glimmer? I'm trying to sleep here."


	6. Cold Waters to a Thirsty Soul

Sam startled awake as a clatter of high-heeled footsteps sounded outside the motel room door. He listened, pulse rate rapidly calming, as the bright chatter of two women's voices faded into the distance as they cheerfully began their day. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand showed it to be nearing 10:00 am. He gave his wristwatch a long, disbelieving stare: the hour read the same. He couldn't recall ever sharing a room with Dean and having almost seven hours of uninterrupted slumber. Usually Dean woke him with strangled murmurs of unrest, or by getting up to go to the bathroom or to surreptitiously watch TV when sleep proved to be his enemy. But he hadn't heard a peep from his brother all night – not since Castiel's light show had finally ended.

Sam's gaze slid to the second bed as he sat up and gave a long, lazy stretch that popped his spine. Two heads shared a single pillow, their foreheads almost – but not quite – touching. Apparently Castiel and Dean had fallen asleep still wrapped in the glory of Castiel's returning Grace. Dean's hand was gently pressed to the ex-angel's heart, Castiel's fingers were firmly locked on Dean's left shoulder.

Sam's first instinct was to laugh himself silly at the sight of his oh-so-macho brother cuddled up with another man. That unthinking response swiftly died as his focus narrowed to his brother's face. Dean looked... young. Impossibly young. All the worries that weighed him down, all those burdens he carried that no man should ever have to bear, were gone. He was at peace in a way that Sam could not remember ever having seen before – certainly not in recent years, and not even when he was a child.

As for Dean's odd choice of a bed companion... Sam swallowed, his throat tightening in awe and wonder. If ever he had wanted proof that angels existed, all he had to do was look upon the sleeping Castiel's face. A face that could inspire sculptors, artists and poets with its innocence... its goodness... its ethereal beauty, for lack of a better description. His lips were curved in a small smile, the mirror image of the smile that Dean currently wore on his face.

The morning sun cast a halo around them both.

Sam forced himself to turn his eyes away. He had no right to witness this... this whatever it was. His intrusion was wrong in too many ways to count.

Quietly, he laid back down and pulled the bedcovers over his head. And then he began to fake the loudest, most obnoxious snorts and snores imaginable.

* * *

Dean's eyes fluttered open and he blinked with some surprise as he found himself held in Castiel's warm embrace – actually sharing his pillow with a sleeping companion who was still relaxed and serenely sound asleep, in spite of all the racket Sam was making. The cruel marks the ghost had left had vanished as if they had never been. Castiel's face, though heavily shadowed with stubble, was pale and smooth and glowing in the morning sun. His heart beat slow and steady beneath Dean's hand.

Dean chanced a glance over his shoulder at his snoring brother, before returning his gaze to Castiel's peaceful visage.

It seemed such a shame to disturb him, but it had to be done. The morning was slipping away. It was a miracle Sam hadn't already bounced out of bed and discovered them in their compromising position.

"Cas..." Dean said softly, and felt the ex-angel's heartbeat quicken just before his eyes flew open and a brilliant blue gaze caressed Dean's face.

"Dean." Castiel made no move to end the stare or pull his hand away from its tight grip on Dean's arm.

"Good morning." Dean smiled and was pleased to see an answering smile light Castiel's face. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be before it was spoken, but needing to hear it anyway.

"Yes," Castiel replied. "No dreams."

"No dreams," Dean confirmed, his smile breaking into a full out grin. "I think we've stumbled upon the secret to a good night's sleep."

"So it would appear."

"Works for me," Dean chuckled.

"I too found it pleasant," Castiel confessed shyly.

"Cas... Cas, I – "

Sam gave a violent snort and muttered something under his breath as he shifted restlessly in his bed.

"Would you like to shower first?" Dean offered, in lieu of whatever it was he had been about to say. Clearly their private moment had come to an end; Sam was seconds away from wakening.

"No, thank you. You may go first."

Dean patted his hand against Castiel's chest and tried not to sigh as Castiel's fingers slid reluctantly away from his brand. The bathroom door closed behind the hunter with a gentle snick of the latch.

"Thank you," Castiel said quietly.

Sam peeked out at him from beneath the covers. "You knew?" he said.

"It was wise of you to not consider acting as a career." Castiel smiled and easily dodged the pillow Sam threw at his head.

* * *

"Yeah, can do Bobby. No problem." Sam hung up the phone and turned to face his curious audience of two. "There is an untunktahe in Oahe Ble," he said.

"A what in the what?" Dean inquired.

"In Lakota mythology, Untunktahe is a water god with great magical powers," Cas said helpfully. "I suppose, in this context, it might simply mean a generic water-spirit has taken up residence in Lake Oahe."

"A mannegishi. You might have said so in the first place," Dean reprimanded Sam.

"Where's the fun in that?" Sam laughed. "Oh, man... Your face..."

"Lake Oahe... I don't suppose you can narrow the search down some, Sam? That's a hell of a lot of water."

"An old friend of Bobby's runs Spring Creek Resort, seventeen miles north of Pierre. It's a pretty ritzy place, very popular and usually booked solid months in advance. At least it was until this water-spirit started frightening customers away. It's been playing some pretty deadly jokes: overturning canoes, turning lines in mid-cast so that the hooks sink into the fishermen – one guy lost his eye last week."

"It's always funny until someone loses an eye," Dean deadpanned.

"No one has drowned yet," Sam continued, ignoring his brother. "But several have come damned close and word is getting around that there are safer places to vacation. Since we're heading back that way anyway, I told Bobby we'd see what we could do to help his friend."

Dean nodded and picked up his duffle bag. "We can be there in an hour or two," he said. "There's some mighty fine fishing in that lake: walleye, chinook salmon, small mouth bass, pike..."

"We're there to work, not fish," Sam said primly, closing the motel door behind them.

"I see no reason why we can't do both," Dean argued, as the three men began to cross the parking lot.

"Shotgun!" Castiel blurted.

Sam and Dean turned to stare at him in surprise.

"I do not know what these fish look like," Castiel explained. "Dean needs to describe them to me in detail and expound on how to capture them, so I can... not stick out like an inflamed pollex."

"You mean a sore thumb?" Dean grinned. "He has a point, Sam. Sam?"

But Sam was already folding himself into the backseat of the car.

* * *

"Wow. Just... wow," Dean breathed, looking around the complimentary 'cabin' they had been assigned for the duration of their stay. Three bedrooms, a jacuzzi in the spacious bathroom, cable TV, refrigerator, microwave, coffee pot and... what was that? Christ, a Wi-Fi.

"It's a far cry from those old shacks we used to hole up in with Dad," Sam said. "Most of them didn't even have indoor plumbing."

"Fuck," Dean breathed, peering out a window. "Some dude in a uniform is out there manicuring the lawn. If this is roughing it, sign me up."

"I don't know," Sam said wistfully. "I kinda miss the ambiance, the solitude..."

"I'll tell you what I don't miss," Dean grumbled. "Dirt floors and bugs. I don't miss them at all. This place is cool. He peered in a little closet off to one side of the cabin's front door. "Fishing gear," he sighed happily. "What say we head for the lake and check things out? Where did Karst say the worst of the activity was centred?"

Sam pulled out the map he had tucked into his pocket and silently studied the notes he had jotted on it during their interview with the manager. "Here," he said. "A couple of miles up from the docks. Four canoes have capsized there just in the past week. It won't take long to paddle up that way."

"Is there a trail?"

"Yeah..."

"Thank you, then, I'll walk," Dean said firmly.

"And carry all that gear?"

"A pole and a tackle box? I think I can manage that."

"Dean, _water_-spirit, remember? You're going to have to go out on the lake sooner or later."

"Later it is," Dean said. "Cas, are you going with Sam or me?"

"I want to come with you."

Dean's face turned scarlet. Sam bit his lip almost hard enough to make it bleed.

"Okay, then," Dean said weakly. "Let's go see if those fish are biting."

* * *

The fish were not in a co-operative mood, but no one really seemed to care. Dean reclined on a sandy, well-shaded bank, his eyes shut tight against the blinding glitter of sunlight on the lake. His fishing rod dipped in the water as he dozed, the line slack and undisturbed. Out in the boat, Sam's luck was no better. His canoe drifted in a lazy semi-circle opposite Dean's position, moored in the shade of a towering old elm tree. Every now and then Sam swatted at a fly that was buzzing around his head. Aside from that irritated gesture, he appeared as close to sleep as his brother was.

It took a while for either hunter to notice the soft rumble of conversation a few yards farther up the shore. Dean was the first to crack open an eye to see who was disturbing his 'fishing'.

He recognized Castiel's gravelly tone instantly. The other speaker's voice was almost equally low pitched, the words heavily accented.

"I can show you where the fish are hiding," the stranger said.

"I will get Dean, he is eager to provide us with our evening meal."

"No. His presence is not required. Come, let me show you."

Something in Dean's stomach knotted and coiled at the words. The fishing rod fell from his hand as he rose and silently crept nearer until he could peer through the underbrush and see the two men standing close – too close! – to the water's edge. Though, thankfully, Castiel was retreating farther inland step by slow and cautious step...

The dark-haired stranger advanced, intent on narrowing the distance between them. "Taku eniciyapi hwo?" he said softly, placing a possessive hand on Castiel's bare arm.

"Castiel."

"Cas-t-el. Mni hiyupo..."

"Hee ya." Castiel shook his head and backed away.

The stranger followed until he had Castiel pressed up against a tree, their eyes locking as he swayed in closer... closer... The pink tip of Castiel's tongue appeared, nervously wetting his lower lip. And that, as far as Dean was concerned, was the final goddamned straw.

"Hey!" he shouted, bursting into the clearing. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"Tawicasa nawizi!" the stranger hissed, the handsome face he turned to Dean abruptly morphing into the hideous visage of an outraged water-spirit. Before Dean could more than take a step in his direction, the creature wheeled away from Castiel and plunged into the safety of the lake.

Sam gave a startled yelp as his canoe was violently rocked by the spirit's passing. Swiftly he paddled for the shore.

"What the fuck?" Dean repeated furiously, turning his anger on Castiel, there being no other target on which to focus at the moment. "Don't you know better than to talk to strangers? How could you let that sonofabitch get close to you like that? He almost had your liver for lunch."

"I'm not sure he was after his liver, Dean," Sam said, looking thoughtfully at Castiel's flushed face. "From where I was sitting, it looked like he was coming on to him."

"Oh, that's just great. A horny, gay Oompa-Loompa."

"Untunktahe," Castiel corrected.

"Whatever!" Dean stepped forward until he was the one pressing Castiel up against the tree, "And you. You damn well flirted back!"

"I recognized the untunktahe for what he was, and I was simply attempting to keep him away from the lake. If a water-spirit's hair dries out, they will die."

"Oh, there's a brilliant plan. And just how did you intend to distract him in order to keep him ashore that long?"

"Oh..." Castiel said meekly. "I did not think that far ahead."

Dean snorted and stepped away. "You got that right," he said, angrily stomping off towards the cabin.

"I didn't know you spoke Lakota," Sam said, as his brother disappeared around a curve in the trail.

"I speak all languages," Castiel said, gathering up Dean's abandoned fishing gear as well as his own. "That hasn't changed."

"What did the spirit say?"

"He asked me my name. He invited me to 'come to the water'. I said no."

"And what was that last bit he threw at Dean?"

Castiel pretended to inventory the contents of the tackle box.

"Cas?"

"Jealous boyfriend," he mumbled eventually, a dark flush painting the back of his neck as he slammed the lid of the box and strode off down the path Dean had taken.

Sam's laughter followed him long after he was out of sight.

* * *

"Maybe Cas had the right idea," Sam said as they enjoyed a free early dinner at the resort's four star restaurant, his fork scooping up another generous bite of fresh-from-the-lake, pan-fried walleye.

"You mean putting out to keep that scum-sucking bottom feeder happy?" Dean abandoned his steak in favour of glaring at his brother. Castiel quietly continued to eat his pasta primavera.

"No... Well, kinda. The untunktahe obviously liked Cas, or we'd be fishing his corpse out of the lake. So... why not use him as bait?"

"You want to pimp for an Angel of the Lord?"

"I am no longer an angel, Dean."

Dean transferred his glare to Castiel. "You're close enough for it to count," he snapped.

"We've prostituted ourselves on any number of cases," Sam argued.

"That's different. That was us... this is Cas."

"It's not like we're going to tart him up in a short skirt and fishnet stockings. He just has to stand there. We'll be close by to protect his virtue."

"Cas?" Dean said. "How do you feel about this?"

"We cannot leave that malicious creature in the lake. He will kill someone, Dean. Possibly several someones. It is only a matter of time."

"Fine." Dean shoved his still half full plate to the centre of the table. "We'll do it. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. And so help me, Cas, if you get dragged into that lake – "

"I will be careful, Dean."

" – I'm not diving in there after you."

* * *

Knowing the catnip-like effect it would have on the water-spirit, Sam set a small pouch of sacred tobacco on fire and wafted it around Castiel until the heavy aroma permeated his clothes and skin and hair.

Dean's nose crinkled disapprovingly as he handed Castiel a small silver knife. "You know what to do?" he asked.

Castiel nodded. "I cut my arm. The untunktahe will be summoned by the blood dripping into the lake. Before he appears, I am to move back to the clearing where you and Sam lie hidden. When he comes after me, I am to toss the contents of this vial upon him. You and Sam will ignite it. The untunktahe will perish."

"Get away from the water as soon as possible," Dean ordered. "This thing is fast. We only have one chance to get it right."

Castiel nodded and moved to the water's edge. The silver knife glinted in the last rays of the setting sun as he slashed it across his forearm. Dark drops of blood fell to the water, and Castiel swiftly moved into position facing the lake, the sharp tang of copper competing with the acrid scent of smoke.

For several long minutes, nothing stirred except an errant breeze. And, then, a ripple shivered across the water's surface as the untunktahe rose from the silent depths and stalked across the sand with scarcely a whisper of sound.

"Cas-t-el..." the creature hissed. "Wana te niye..."

"No, Castiel said coldly. "It is you that must die."

Everything happened quickly after that. Castiel threw the gasoline as the creature turned to flee back to the water, only to find two humans barring its path. Sam and Dean's lighters flared, and twin arcs of fire sped towards their target. The untunktahe went up in a burst of flame, as did the sleeve of Dean's jacket. Both human and water-spirit emitted unearthly howls, the untunktahe abruptly disintegrating into a shower of sparks, while Dean found himself unexpectedly flying through the air. He landed with a resounding splash, the lake's cold waters closing over his head.

"Dean!" Sam hollered.

Castiel was already wading out to Dean's rescue, his arm plunging into the chill depths to haul a sputtering Dean back to the surface.

"That went well, I think," Sam said. "Overall, I mean," he hastily added. "Not the part where you fell in the lake."

"I did not fall," Dean grumbled. "I was pushed!"

"I'm sorry," Castiel offered contritely. "But some of the gas splashed on your clothes. I could not allow you to burn up with the untunktahe."

"At least he went in after you." Sam grinned.

"My hero," Dean said, miserably squelching his way back to the cabin, shivering in the cool evening breeze and picking duckweed out of his hair. But the lingering glance he turned upon Castiel when he was sure no one was looking gave lie to his apparent anger.

_No one's ass should look that good in cheap polyester,_ he mused, watching Castiel walk down the path ahead of him, chatting amicably with Sam about whatever it was nerds favoured as a topic of discussion. The blasted ex-angel didn't seem to care that he too was sopping wet, his clothing clinging to him like a second skin.

_Not that I made a habit of wondering what he was hiding under that damned trench coat, but – holy fuck! Who would have guessed that it hid such a hot little body? The dude's going to drive the chicks wild..._

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Sam threw his brother an exasperated glare. "For the third time," he said in an exaggerated drawl, "I asked: are you hungry?"

"Yes," Dean replied. "I'm starving."

"Me too," Castiel said.

"Pizza okay with everyone?"

"Hmmm?" Dean murmured absentmindedly, lost in a sudden staring contest with Castiel.

"I said, is pizza – Oh, you know what? Never mind. I'll just let you two know when it gets here."


	7. When I Was a Child

Dean woke with a start as a clap of thunder sounded, torn from a vision of blood-slicked hands reaching out to him imploringly, a chorus of wailing voices transforming into the shriek of the wind and the relentless whisper of rain against the window.

_A dream,_ he told himself. _It was just a dream. Or possibly a memory..._

He lay there for a few long moments, heart galloping in his breast, counting the seconds between lightning flashes and answering rumbles of thunder, until his heartbeat slowed to normal and the line between dream and reality was once again firmly re-established in his mind. Briefly, then, he considered rolling over and trying to go back to sleep, but the sour taste the dream had left in his mouth soon convinced him that would be a waste of time. The long hours until morning were not fated to be spent in slumber. Sighing, Dean reached out for the bed lamp's switch, only to discover that the room remained dark as a tomb when he toggled it back and forth. The familiar red glow of a clock radio on the nightstand was also absent. Clearly, the power was off, which meant the distraction of a little late night channel surfing was out of the question – nor was Sam's laptop an option as it was in his brother's room, and he had no desire to listen to him bitch and whine if he disturbed his rest.

"Damn," Dean muttered, as he sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

Maybe raiding the fridge would prove entertaining. There might be a slice of pizza left over. At the very least, there should be a bottle or two of beer. It was certainly worth a try. Given enough alcohol, bed might even become tempting again.

Dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers, Dean opened his bedroom door and padded out into the common area.

Sporadic bursts of lightning lit his path to the refrigerator. A brief search revealed a distinct lack of pizza, but there were three bottles of beer left. Dean helped himself to two and turned to make his way over to the sofa. He was just about to sit down when a strobe of light lit up the silent room, revealing a man-shaped shadow standing at the window overlooking the lake.

Dean's heart tripped in time with a low growl of thunder.

Cas. He didn't need the confirmation a second wash of light offered as it spilled across the room. He'd know that silhouette anywhere, even without the usual added bulk of his trench coat. How small and vulnerable he looked now, clad simply in a loose-fitting T-shirt and a pair of boxers Dean recognized as being his own – which explained why he had not been able to find them in his duffle bag earlier that evening, after a long, hot soak in the jacuzzi had finally eased the chill out of his bones.

"You couldn't sleep either, huh?" he said softly, setting the beer bottles on the coffee table and crossing the room until they stood side by side, their shoulders lightly touching.

"No," Castiel sighed. "I tried... but the storm kept me awake."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they regarded nature's fury: the pelting rain which dimpled the surface of the lake, trees tossing restlessly as if in fear of the forks of lightning which split the sky, reverberations of booming thunder sending shivers down both men's spines.

"I used to love to fly on nights like this," Castiel said quietly. "I would dart between the clouds, my wing beats echoing the thunder. I would capture lightning in my hands and redirect its path."

"Cas..."

"It was a very long time ago. I was young and foolish then. The world was new."

"Cas..."

"My brothers soon cured me of such nonsense. They turned me into a soldier. I knew my place. I always did what I was told to do..."

"Oh, G – "

"No," Castiel said fiercely, covering Dean's mouth with a firm hand. "Not like this. Not out of pity."

Dean nodded and Castiel slowly drew his hand away.

To give them both a chance to regroup their thoughts, Dean walked back over to the sofa to retrieve the bottles of beer. Opening them both, he returned to the window and pressed one into Castiel's hand.

"You mojoed me into the lake tonight," Dean said abruptly, when his beer was almost gone and he could no longer take the silence. "I saw you hold up your hand... and whammo! I was airborne."

"Yes. I had built up a small reserve of Grace. It is depleted now."

"So, the ghost and the water-spirit... they were attracted to your Grace? Does this mean every hunt we go on we're going to have to beat the crazies off you with a stick?"

"There is a distinct possibility that will be the case. Of course, we can avoid that by keeping me completely human."

"Or we can make you stronger, so they won't stand a chance."

"Yes... I suppose that would work as well."

"Cas... what do you want?"

"That is the problem, Dean. I do not know. I only know what I do not want. I don't want to be a good little soldier. I don't want to be a burden on you and Sam. I don't want to be alone."

"You won't be, Cas. I made a promise. Remember? We're here for you. I'm here for you. Trust in that, even if you trust in nothing else."

"I trust you, Dean," Castiel whispered.

"Give me your hand," Dean gently requested and, without hesitation, Castiel placed his hand in Dean's open palm and their fingers tangled together. "It's late. Neither one of us is thinking clearly. We need to sleep... and for some reason we do that best when we're together. So... will you come to bed with me, Cas?"

"You wish to share your bed with me again? Even though three beds are available? Is this another form of pity?" Castiel's head titled to one side consideringly.

"It isn't pity, Cas."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know..." Dean said slowly. "I honestly don't know."

* * *

The storm was now nothing more than a murmur in the distance, but Dean and Castiel were still awake, lost in a sharing of stories, curled on their sides facing one another in Dean's bed, their knees bumping and their eyes burning as they fought the yawns that threatened to overcome them. Both men were obviously well beyond weary, but neither was quite ready to give in to sleep.

"When I was ten, Dad disappeared for a week, leaving me alone with Sam," Dean said. "It wasn't his fault. The wendigo he was hunting caught him instead. He managed to kill it, but he almost died in the process. It took him a full day to crawl back to the car and find himself a doctor. He was unconscious for five days. As soon as he woke up, he sneaked out of the hospital and headed back to us. We were up north in a cabin. No phone, no one around for miles. Our food ran out by the third day. I made a game of it with Sammy, took him fishing, picked berries... we even ate a god-awful dandelion salad I made. I didn't know you should only use young leaves because the flowers turn the old ones bitter. I think that's why I still can't stand the taste of most leafy green vegetables."

"Your father should never have left you and Sam alone like that."

"He was a hunter. He had a job to do. What else could he do? Sam and I were too young to go hunting with him. We were too far away from Bobby's for him to mind us."

"Still... you were but a child."

"I was a soldier. I had my orders. Stay put. Look after Sammy."

"Orders..." Castiel sighed. "Always orders..."

"There were good times too. I'm sure you can say the same. At the very least, you must have had an amusing misadventure or two."

"I once accidentally set Balthazar's wing on fire. He would not speak to me for eons."

"I take it that you mean eons literally?"

"Of course. In the geologic sense."

"Balthazar..." Dean said slowly. "Is he... is he the one who told you that you have pretty eyes?"

"No, Dean."

"Crowley? Anna? Gabriel? Please don't tell me it was Sam or Bobby... or Meg."

"No." Castiel actually chuckled out loud at the distaste in Dean's voice.

"Okay, I give. It's driving me crazy, man. Who was it?"

Castiel's hand stole up to cup Dean's cheek. "It was you," he said quietly.

"W-what? Me? I never!"

"It was the night you took me to that den of iniquity. You were drunk, Dean. Very drunk and... affectionate. Just before you passed out you looked me straight in the eye and said – "

" – I've never seen such a fucking gorgeous shade of blue," Dean moaned. "Oh, fuck! I actually said that out loud? I thought I'd only dreamed it. Oh, God! That is so not the kind of thing one dude says to another. Oh, God, I – "

"Dean..."

"What? Oh, hell! I'm sorry. Should I try and take it back?"

"No. I don't mind... now," Castiel said softly, as he began to glow. His hand crept from Dean's face to his shoulder as they both inched closer to the centre of the bed. And, this time, Dean gripped him back every bit as tightly as he was held.

* * *

Six weeks passed before they headed back to Bobby's. One hunt led to another, one day flowed into the next and before they knew it the rhythm of the road had drawn them firmly under its old, familiar spell. That they were three now, instead of two, didn't seem to matter. Castiel fit seamlessly into their lives, and if he and Sam had to take it in turns riding up front with Dean, well, it was a small price to pay for the ex-angel's increasingly valuable assistance. Occasionally, Sam woke up in the middle of the night to find Castiel and his brother innocently sharing a single bed, but they were always back in their original positions, tucked up in a solitary cot or sleeping bag, long before the morning light signalled the start of another day. Sam turned a blind eye on the harmless trysts. The dark smudges under Dean's eyes faded. Smiles came more readily to his face and were mirrored in the easy, answering upturn of Castiel's lips.

For the first time in a long time, Dean was happy. Sam was happy. Castiel seemed happy too. Life was good. Damned good.

Sam closed his eyes and drifted into a light doze as they crossed the Minnesota – South Dakota border, the Impala arrowing its way towards Sioux Falls, Castiel's low pitched conversation and Dean's light-hearted laughter a soothing background melody.

* * *

It was a well known fact that Dean Winchester hated shopping with a passion. He especially hated shopping for clothing and usually was satisfied with whatever selections Sam made for him if it meant he could avoid the special level of hell that was Walmart. But Castiel desperately needed clothes. The seat of his dress pants was almost transparent from constant use and both knees were more patch than original fabric. Sharing T-shirts and flannel shirts wasn't really a problem, though it meant more frequent stops at the laundromat, but no matter how tightly Castiel cinched his belt, Dean's jeans kept sliding down his slender hips. At best he looked like a little kid playing dress-up. At worse, he had tripped and fallen when a trailing cuff got caught under his shoe. Had that happened on a hunt instead of a training session, it could have been disastrous. As it was, Castiel suffered a gash on his leg so deep that without a burst of mojo it would have taken weeks to heal. Which reminded Dean, Cas needed work boots. Something with a better tread than slippery dress shoes. And probably sneakers too. And a heavy jacket since winter was just around the corner. And a duffle to hold all his stuff. And... Dean sighed and added the items to the growing list in his head. At this rate, they'd never escape the foul depths of Walmart. They were doomed to wander its aisles forever.

Castiel, on the other hand, was like a kid in a candy store. He was fascinated by anything and everything and turned to Sam for answers when Dean's patience finally snapped as the ex-angel lingered over a display of Barbie dolls.

"It's so pink, Dean. It's all so pink. And look at the wide range of tiny accessories. I've never seen shoes that small. Why does she only wear high heels, Dean? Is that not impractical for daily use?"

Dean left Sam to explain how the shape of Barbie's foot dictated her shoe choice, hastening on to the safety of the men's clothing department before Castiel could inquire about a brightly coloured exhibition of panties and bras and question the anatomical inaccuracies of the manikins modelling the flimsy material. Apparently that was a wise decision on Dean's part, if the constipated look on Sam's face was any indication when he and Castiel finally rejoined him. Dean cast a smirk Sam's way as he continued shopping and Castiel diligently threw himself into browsing through a shirt display, exclaiming over the variety of patterns and debating the merits of plaids or stripes versus solid colours. He seemed especially intrigued by greens of various hues, while Dean focused exclusively on blues. In fact, Dean was on a hunt for the perfect shade of blue, moving from one rack to the next, flicking through shirts and declaring the colours to be too dark, too light, too grey...

The third time Castiel appeared with a green shirt in hand, Dean shooed him off to go look at jeans while he continued his search in peace.

"You do know what you're doing, don't you, Dean?" Sam said, after a further ten minutes or so of intent and amused observation had passed. "What you've both been doing? "

"I'm helping Cas pick out a shirt. What do you think we're doing, smart ass?"

"You're each trying to match the colour of the other's eyes," Sam snickered.

"Sometimes I really hate you, Samantha," Dean muttered, grabbing up several blue shirts at random and motioning for Castiel to accompany him as he stomped off towards a vacant changing room.

"Oh yeah," Sam hollered at his brother's retreating back. "I know you do. Sometimes I hate you too. But you didn't deny the accusation, now did you, Dean?"

Castiel added a jade-coloured T-shirt and several pairs of jeans to the pile Dean thrust into his arms and vanished into the cubicle as Dean settled down in a chair to wait, cleverly putting the time to good use by plotting various forms of dire revenge on Sam.

* * *

As well as being frustratingly tedious work, shopping also always made Dean extremely hungry. His stomach rumbled loudly as they stashed their purchases in the Impala's trunk, and Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's predictability while Castiel looked vaguely concerned about the weird noises emanating from Dean's belly.

Fortunately, there was a decent looking diner just the other side of the parking lot, so Dean didn't have to subject himself to Sam making gagging noises as he consumed a Big Mac. Castiel looked a bit dismayed at missing out on the opportunity to sample something so promisingly called a Happy Meal, but his spirits quickly rallied when he slid into the chair next to Dean and he saw the variety of milkshake flavours listed on a somewhat sticky, laminated menu.

Several minutes later, Sam was grazing on a salad and Dean was lifting the edge of Castiel's sandwich to claim the dill pickle nestled atop layers of thinly sliced roast beef.

"You know you can ask them to hold the pickle if you don't like it?" Sam said helpfully.

"Why would I ask them to hold a pickle?" Castiel inquired. "Do they not have better things to do with their time? It would speed up service considerably if both hands were free to-"

"Never mind, Cas," Sam interrupted. "Your loss is Dean's gain."

Dean inserted the pickle in his burger and took an over-sized bite. Castiel slid his plate until it bumped against Dean's and nudged a small share of fries and onion rings over to rest by his sandwich. Dean picked up a bottle and placed a neat dollop of ketchup next to Castiel's fries before generously applying a thick layer of sauce all over the remaining fries on his own plate. Castiel moved his plate back in place and daintily dipped the tip of a fry in the ketchup before popping it into his mouth. As he picked up his sandwich, he spotted a second pickle peeping out from under the meat and pinched it between his fingers to remove it. Dean held open his burger and Castiel dropped the pickle inside. In unison, then, the two men took bites of their respective meals and chewed contentedly.

"Cute act," Sam murmured. "What do you do for an encore?"

"Huh?" Dean grunted. "What the hell are you on about, Sammy?"

Castiel merely looked confused.

"Pie?" Dean said brightly, when it appeared Sam had nothing further to say at the moment. "Cherry, apple, rhubarb, coconut cream," he read from the dessert menu.

"Chocolate?" Cas inquired hopefully.

"Sorry, no." Dean shook his head regretfully. "But we can probably get a scoop or two of chocolate ice cream if you'd like. Vanilla would be better with the pie... but, hey, live it up, Cas."

Popping the last bite of burger into his mouth, Dean waved down a passing waitress. "I'll have the apple à la mode," he said. "He'll have the cherry with a side of chocolate ice cream. Sammy?"

"Just coffee, thanks."

"Milk for me," Dean declared. "Cas? You still good with that milkshake?""

Castiel nodded and the waitress cast him a bright smile before scurrying off to fill their order.

" 'My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours. Damn right it's better than yours,' " Sam sang in a slightly off-key falsetto.

"Can it, Sam," Dean growled.

" 'I know you want it,' " Sam responded, hazel eyes alight with mischief.

"Sam..."

" 'La, la, la, la, la. The boys are waiting.' "

"_Sam!_"

Fortunately, the waitress returned just then with their order, literally seconds before Dean could launch himself across the table at a sniggering Sam. And, for a few blissful moments, Dean's world narrowed down to pie. Just pie. No shopping. No monsters. No annoying little brother. Just simple, delicious pie.

Dean managed to polished off his serving while Castiel was only a few bites into his dessert. Without hesitation, Castiel pushed his plate over to Dean and turned his full attention to his milkshake.

Dean hummed his appreciation, picked up Castiel's fork and began to shovel in the cherry pie. Every now and then, Castiel used Dean's abandoned fork to snag a bit of ice cream.

Sam lifted an eyebrow, sipped his coffee and let the silence ride. By the time Dean's second serving of pie had vanished, however, silence was a thing of the past: Castiel was making obscene slurping noises with a straw as he neared the end of his shake, clearly relishing every drop of the sweet drink. From the next table over, a little boy looked at him admiringly, a happy smile lighting his face as he vigorously began to imitate the noisy process. The boy's mother shot Castiel a glare. Dean scowled back at her, grabbed his own drink and began to slurp even more loudly than the oblivious boy and ex-angel. Soon after that, the mother collected her son and left in an obvious huff.

Sam buried his face in his hands: "I can't take you two anywhere."

"What?" Castiel said. "_What?_ Dean, are you laughing at me?"

* * *

Because they were still missing a few items which Bobby had requested and Walmart could not supply, they detoured to the mall on their way back to the car, their progress impeded by Castiel's frequent stops to observe the sights and people around them. One noisy spot in particular proved to be exceptionally fascinating to him.

"What is that little booth," he wondered aloud. "And why do people keep piling into it to giggle?"

"Oh, God," Sam sighed. "I haven't seen the inside of one of those things since I was a kid. Do you remember the fun we used to have, Dean? Got so Dad had to carry extra change every time we hit a mall."

"Yeah," Dean grinned fondly and mock punched his brother in the arm. "Not sure you'd fit in there now, Gigantor."

"But what is its purpose?" Castiel persisted, moving closer to peer at a sign on the side of the booth. "Four poses... three minutes... Photographs?" he mused. "If you do not own a camera, this is where you come to have your image recorded?"

"You could say that," Sam laughed.

"I do not own a camera."

"Would you like to have your picture taken, Cas?" Dean asked gently.

Castiel nodded, a little shy about admitting to this frivolous desire, but equally determined. "Humans accumulate keepsakes of their good times with friends and family. I would like to have such a memento of this day spent with you and Sam."

"In you go, then," Dean gestured, and when Castiel complied, Dean squeezed into the booth beside him. Sam plunked coins into the slot and stuck his head in through the curtained door.

_Snap... snap... snap... snap..._

Blinking from the brightness of the flash, the three men tumbled out to impatiently wait for their photos to develop.

In each and every picture, Castiel had the same neutral expression on his face. In contrast, Sam and Dean's eyes were crossed in the first frame, Sam gave Dean bunny ears in the second. They stuck their tongues out at each other in the third, and Sam thumbed his nose at Dean in the fourth. Both brothers had big, silly grins on their faces the whole time.

Castiel studied the photo strip with a tilted head and a puzzled expression on his face. "This is... not what I expected," he murmured finally.

"That's what you do in a photo booth, Cas," Sam laughed. "You goof around. It's not meant to be serious, like a normal photo. It's meant to be fun – and funny."

"I see..." Castiel said slowly.

"Would you like to try it again?" Dean offered.

"Yes. Please. I think I understand now."

"Okay!" Dean crawled back into the booth and patted the seat beside him. "Show us what you've got, Cas."

Again, Sam inserted coins and poked his head into the booth. "On the count of three," he warned. "One! Two!" He stuck his thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers. "Three!"

Castiel grabbed Dean and planted a very wet, very enthusiastic kiss full on his lips.

_Snap... snap... snap... snap..._

"Aww," Sam said disappointedly, as they gathered around to look at the results. "You didn't make a funny face, Cas."

"No," Castiel said, somewhat smugly. "But Dean did."

* * *

Dean dreamed about the pictures that night. Little wonder. He had been obsessed with them ever since they had been taken. In fact, he had stolen the strip from the kitchen table where a still laughing Sam had given it place of honour. Had stealthily slipped it into his pocket as he said his goodnights and retired to the upstairs bedroom he claimed whenever they stopped over at Bobby's. Had lain in bed for the better part of an hour, staring at Castiel's pretty mouth and eyes... the surprise on his own face as Castiel kissed him... the slight smile that curved Castiel's lips as he pulled away...

And when he finally turned off the light and slipped into a restless slumber, over and over, he felt Castiel's warm hands frame his face, lightly caressing his cheeks. Saw the tip of Castiel's tongue dart out to moisten pouting lips before they touched upon his own. Tasted strawberry milkshake. Smelled the fresh scent of soap and shampoo and something that was uniquely Cas.

He shivered, though the night was unseasonably warm, and his blanket had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed. When the dream ended, and his eyes opened, still Castiel's face lingered in his mind's eye.

_Cas kissed me..._

Dean touched his lips with a fingertip, and smiled.

* * *

Castiel was also dreaming. At least, he had been. A very nice dream it was too, vividly reliving the touch of Dean's lips. In the dream, though, the kiss had lasted much longer than two hasty snaps of a camera. And Dean's mouth, rather than being taut with surprise, opened to him instead: warm and wet, practiced and knowing. Dream Dean's arms wrapped around him, drawing him closer to his breast until they shared a single heartbeat, and Castiel stifled a little moan, the broken sound caught deep in his throat as his dream self began to respond in earnest...

He was awake now, blindly staring into the darkness. His heart was racing and his skin was tingling with an unfamiliar, exceedingly pleasant sensation.

"I kissed Dean," he whispered, shifting restlessly upon his makeshift bed. The couch was old and musty and lumpy and about four inches too short, so his feet stuck out over the edge, but in that moment he didn't feel any discomfort at all. He was floating on a wave of euphoria and yearning.

"I kissed Dean," he repeated wonderingly.

_And I want to do it again._


	8. As a Man Thinks in His Heart

Contrary to popular belief, 'denial' was not Dean Winchester's middle name... though, perhaps it should have been. It was his safety mechanism for coping with all the shit life threw at him – which was usually a big, hot steaming pile of the stuff. If it didn't happen, if it didn't matter, it couldn't hurt you. The greater the potential for hurt, the greater the need for denial. It was a credo that had served Dean well down through the years. And so, by the time the sun touched on the horizon, ending a restless night and signalling the start of another day, inevitably Dean had convinced himself that Castiel's kiss was nothing more than a harmless joke. After all, Sam's explanation of what happened in a photo booth had been very explicit: _You goof around. It's not meant to be serious, like a normal photo. It's meant to be fun – and funny._

Unpractised in the ways of humour as he was, Castiel had inadvertently stumbled upon the ultimate prank to play on Dean: he had made him believe the kiss was real. Worse, he had made him _want_ to believe. And that shook the foundations of everything Dean knew to be true about himself. He didn't like men, damn it! He liked big boobs and long legs up to _here_, not flat, hairy chests and faces sandpapery rough with stubble. Sure, Cas had gorgeous eyes, a hot little bod, and a mouth just made for kissing... but that didn't necessarily mean he _should_ kiss the guy.

Why, then, did he still want to kiss him?

Couldn't he take a joke?

His whole goddamned life was one bad joke after another.

Dean sighed and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Clicking on the light, he picked up the little strip of pictures and gave it an intense, lingering stare.

"You got me, Cas," he whispered, lightly touching a finger to the smile curving Castiel's lips in the final frame. "You got me good."

* * *

By the time the others wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the heavenly scent of coffee wafting through the house, the second strip of photos was safely back in its place on the kitchen table next to the first, and Dean was far across the room from them both, busily stirring batter.

"Pancakes?" Sam said hopefully. "What's the occasion, Dean?"

"I'm hungry," Dean replied, grinning at his brother and trying his best to ignore the weight of Castiel's questioning eyes.

"When aren't you hungry?" Sam teased, grabbing a couple of frying pans and heading for the stove to get the burners heating.

Bobby cast a thoughtful gaze on the photos and began to set the table. As he made a final trip, loaded with syrup and cutlery, he noted that the second strip of pictures had once again mysteriously disappeared. Unerringly, his glance slid to Castiel. The ex-angel's attention seemed to be focused on pouring out four mugs of coffee but, every now and then, his hand reached up to surreptitiously touch the breast pocket of his new flannel shirt, as if to reassure himself that something was still there. A light flush touched his cheeks as his head lifted and he met Bobby's eye.

"Don't forget the milk and sugar," Bobby said.

"I'll get them," Dean volunteered.

Castiel tried hard to hide his hurt dismay at the circuitous path Dean made around him, careful not to let so much as their sleeves brush. Quietly, he carried the coffee over to the table and the four men sat down to eat, Dean settling himself in Sam's usual place at Bobby's side.

If Dean noticed the photos' absence or Castiel's increasing distress, he didn't say a word. Not that he could have if he'd tried. He was far too busy trying to swallow the mound of pancakes he had shovelled in his mouth.

"I've been thinking," Bobby said, sipping his second cup of coffee. "Halloween is just around the corner."

"Our busy season," Dean quipped.

"Yeah," Bobby snorted. "Ghoulies and ghosties galore... Which is why I was wondering if you boys would like to stick around awhile. Help me keep an eye on things. If you don't have other plans..."

"We were going to head out Chicago way," Sam said. "We have a lead on a shapeshifter."

"That can wait," Dean said, suddenly envisioning shared beds in small motel rooms and shying away from the intimacy that implied. Bobby's invitation was the perfect solution.

"Of course it can," Sam said quickly, thinking of all they owed the old man, and how seldom he gave in to his loneliness and asked them to stay. "Count us in, Bobby. Was there something specific you had in mind?"

"There's a small but nasty coven that's been getting a lot of press lately," Bobby replied. "The usual: ritualistic sacrifice of small animals, inverted crucifixes, cursed objects, and a hell of a lot of bad luck happening to anyone who crosses them. The activity seems to be centred around the O'Gorman Catholic High School." He turned a thoughtful gaze on Castiel. "How's your French?" he asked. "I know your Latin is flawless."

"Mon français est également impeccable."

"I thought you might say that."

"What do you have in mind, Bobby?" Dean said, a sick suspicion growing in his breast.

"I'm friends with the school's chaplain, Father Desmond. He doesn't like what's happening and so he's offered us an in. They have urgent need of a substitute teacher – French and Latin with a little theology thrown in for good measure. I told him I might have just the man for the job."

"Cas," Dean said flatly.

"That's Father Novak to you." Bobby grinned. "Father Desmond has a spare room Cas can use. The house is just across from the school, so he can sneak over and check things out whenever he likes."

"No." Dean shook his head emphatically. "He's not ready to fly solo."

"I thought you'd say that, too. That's why I lined up custodial jobs for you and Sam."

"You were pretty sure we were going to say yes, weren't you?"

"You start tomorrow at 8:00 am. We'll take Cas to Father Desmond later this morning. There's a lot he has to learn to play his role."

* * *

It didn't take long for Castiel to pack. Father Desmond would supply the necessary wardrobe for the assignment: a cassock for formal occasions, a black suit and white collar for daily wear. All he really needed to bring with him was a few toiletries: toothbrush and comb, razor and... he hesitated briefly, his hand hovering above Dean's shaving cream, shower gel and shampoo before he collected all three and stuffed them in his duffle. As an afterthought, he stole Dean's deodorant and toothpaste too before exiting the bathroom and heading back downstairs. Underwear, socks, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts soon concealed the evidence of his petty theft.

Castiel zipped up the bag and gave Bobby's living room a sombre glance. He would miss this place. It had become a home of sorts. As for the people he was leaving behind... His eyes dropped to the photo strip safely tucked in his breast pocket. Carefully, he drew it out and stared at it until his eyes ached from the effort of blinking back tears. "Dean..." he whispered, touching a finger to the glossy paper, wishing with all his heart that he could relive yesterday and undo that kiss. One slip of his control, one tiny moment of glorious self-indulgence and he had destroyed their easy camaraderie. Dean was running scared... and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. No apology, no amount of wishing it weren't so, was going to make this go away.

"Are you ready, Cas?"

Castiel swiftly tucked the photos back in his pocket and turned to face the speaker.

"Yes, Sam," he said.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, projecting an air of confidence Castiel only wished that he could feel. His stomach fluttered disconcertingly. This was it. He was actually striking out on his own. A human amongst humans – amongst strangers! – with only his wits to protect and guide him.

Sam smiled. "Relax," he said. "Everything is going to be okay. Dean and I will be close by. We'll gank the witches and you'll be back here with us again before you know it."

Castiel nodded and picked up his bag, heading for the kitchen.

"So..." Sam said nonchalantly, ambling along beside him. "You, um, kinda like my brother, huh?"

"I have never made a secret of that fact."

"No... I guess you haven't."

"I think the only one who doesn't know is Dean," Castiel said softly.

"Oh, I think he knows. I'm pretty sure the liking goes both ways."

"Perhaps... but that is something he will never readily admit."

The porch door opened just then, interrupting their conversation. Dean stepped inside and Castiel silently walked past him, heading for the Impala. Dean's eyes followed his progress until the closing door hid him from view.

_You might be surprised,_ Sam thought. _I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you._

* * *

Father Desmond was a kind and gentle man in his late sixties: short, over-weight and balding. He welcomed Castiel into his home, showed him to his room and made it clear that he was not to hide himself away in the small chamber. "At the very least, " he said, "I expect you to join me for meals whenever your duties permit. As you can imagine, I don't often have the chance to entertain. You are a very welcome guest, my son – and not just for what you can do to help rid us of our problem. Milly is an excellent companion..." He bent to fondly pet a purring tabby. "But I'm afraid her conversation leaves much to be desired."

Castiel eyed the cat uncertainly, as if expecting her to speak.

"Please, sit down." The priest waved Castiel to a comfortable armchair and chose a matching one for himself.

"Thank you, Father."

Milly sauntered over to Castiel and rubbed her head against his leg. And then, much to his surprise, she leapt up to his lap and settled down, still purring loudly. Castiel stroked her with a hesitant hand, fascinated by the unexpected softness of her fur and the soothing warmth of her compact little body. Milly's purrs reached new heights of ecstasy as Castiel grew more comfortable with this alien creature and his touch grew more sure.

"You've made a friend already," Father Desmond chuckled. "Milly is an astute judge of character. I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly. You must have a way with animals."

Castiel wisely refrained from mentioning that this was his first close encounter.

"Castiel..." the priest continued. "That's an unusual name. The angel of Thursday, new changes, travel..."

"I come from a very religious, scholarly family."

"Which no doubt explains your solid knowledge of Latin and theology. Robert was quite generous in his praises. He obviously thinks very highly of you."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at this unexpected news. Robert? Bobby Singer? He had won his respect? So intrigued was he by this notion that he almost failed to hear Father Desmond's next question.

"Have you taught before, Castiel?"

"No. I was... a soldier."

"No matter. I have a curriculum outlined. Feel free to improvise as you gain confidence. You shouldn't have any problems. Our students are all eager to learn, very dedicated to making good grades and getting into the best universities."

"And yet someone is dabbling in the black arts."

"There is a serpent in the garden," Father Desmond said with a sigh. "It is most distressing to think of innocent children placing their immortal souls in danger. The soul is such a precious thing..."

Castiel sighed, shivering at the memory of millions of dark souls inhabiting his body, corrupting him with their power, tempting him with their siren songs and gilded lies. He contrasted this distasteful image with the brilliant light that shone from Dean's pure soul. "Yes, it certainly is," he replied belatedly. "It is a pearl beyond price..."

_And I would give all that I own to call it mine._

* * *

Dean tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. Sleep eluded him. The empty half of his bed had never seemed so wide. Morning had never seemed so far away.

Cursing under his breath, Dean slammed his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed: head cradled in his hands, elbows planted on his knees, shoulders bent beneath the weight of the endless night. Sighing, he lifted his head and stared at the curtains fluttering in the breeze that stole in his open window. Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale imitation of a wash of Grace. But there was no forgiveness here. Not for him.

He didn't deserve it anyway.

_I promised,_ Dean thought wearily. _I promised I'd stand by him, but I let him go without a word of goodbye._

Over and over the image of Castiel's wan face played in his mind: the quiet resignation... the abandoned puppy look he tried to hide as the Impala drove away...

_No one asked him if this was something he was ready to do. We just used him, the way we always have. And he let us..._

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Dean fled his bedroom and made his way downstairs. It wasn't nearly as easy to flee from his thoughts. They kept him company as he made his way to the kitchen. They mocked him as he downed one bottle of beer, and then a second, and then a third. Desperate to escape, he pulled a bottle of whiskey from its hiding place on one of Bobby's overflowing bookcases and poured himself a generous glass. He didn't bother to count how many more of those he had.

Somehow, hours later, he managed to stumble over to the empty sofa and unfold the blanket Castiel had been using. Curled up underneath it, breathing in the lingering scent of the absent man, pressing himself against the sofa's back, he could almost believe that Castiel was right there behind him. It wasn't perfect, but in his drunken stupor it was good enough.

Dean slept... and did not dream.

* * *

The short walk down the hallway from the office he shared with Father Desmond to his assigned classroom seemed endless. Whispers followed him, eyes stared. No actual fingers pointed but, nonetheless, Castiel could feel their ghostly presence crawling on his skin. He ignored the eerie feeling. Head up, eyes forward, measured steps carried him towards his destination. The numbers on the doors crawled by: 207... 208...

The bell signalling the start of first period sounded. Wonderful. He was going to be late for his own class.

...213.. 214...

The hallway miraculously cleared as students hurriedly slipped through doors and settled in their chairs. Only Castiel remained, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

...218... 219... Finally! There it was!

Just then, an exceptionally tall – and very familiar – janitor came into view, pushing a broom down the hall towards him.

Castiel nodded as Sam gave him a quick thumbs up gesture. And then he drew in a deep breath, stepped into Room 220 and closed the door behind him.

More eyes. A sea of blues and browns and greys and greens.

"Good morning," Castiel said, his voice deeper than normal. He cleared his throat in hopes of expelling some of his nervousness.

Only a few tentative voices replied.

_Introduce yourself,_ Father Desmond's advice repeated in his mind. _Write everything down so they don't keep asking you to repeat yourself._

"I'm Father Novak," Castiel said, picking up a dry marker and turning to write his name on the whiteboard.

_Osculum mihi asinum_ was already scrawled there in large, sprawling letters.

A titter rippled through the class.

Castiel squared his shoulders and reached out to slash a line through _mihi_ and _asinum. Culus meus,_ he wrote then in a fine, bold hand. Turning back to face the class, he tilted his head questioningly. "I presume that's what you were trying to say?" he said. "Osculum culus meus. Kiss my ass. As in buttocks. Unless one of you happens to have a donkey fetish?"

The class erupted into laughter and turned as one to face a very red-faced boy sitting in the back row.

Castiel set his briefcase on his desk and clicked it open. "Please open your textbooks to page forty-two..." he said.

* * *

"How's he doing?" Dean murmured, coming up behind his brother and giving him a sharp poke in the ribs with his elbow. "Are they eating him alive?"

"Surprisingly, no." Sam stepped aside to let Dean peek in the tiny window. "In fact, I'd say he has them eating out of his hand."

"Huh," Dean huffed. "Go figure." A touch of pride flickered in his breast as he stared at Castiel. One of the ex-angel's slender hands was gesturing gracefully, his voice rising and falling in sweet cadence as he read from some dreary text. The students' faces were alight with interest in the topic – at least, Dean assumed it was the lesson that fascinated them so. He didn't much like the way some of those dreamy-eyed looks were bent on Castiel. Reluctantly, he allowed Sam's hand to tug him further down the hall.

"Have you found anything yet?" Sam said.

"Hex bags and a scattering of rather nasty sigils," Dean replied. "You?"

"The same. Sophisticated stuff for high school. Someone has access to some pretty arcane knowledge and supplies."

Dean nodded. "It's going to be a bitch to trace it down."

"I called Bobby. He's checking the supply and delivery angle, both local and through the internet. I doubt the witches are dumb enough to have their potions delivered to the school, but you never know."

"Weirder things have happened," Dean agreed, drifting back over to the little window and peering in the classroom just as Castiel's head happened to turn towards the door.

Castiel's eyes met Dean's and he froze in mid sentence, his gaze locked on the hunter's. Equally unable to tear his eyes away, Dean lost himself in the familiar stare...

By the time puzzled students thought to follow their dumbstruck teacher's haunted gaze and turned their attention to the door, the window was empty.

Sam propelled Dean down the hall ahead of him, satisfying himself with a firm grip on his brother's arm, when what he really wanted was to deliver a swift kick to his backside. "Weirder things, indeed," he muttered. "So help me, Dean... Are you sure you didn't get some damiana on you when you were disposing of those hex bags?"

_If only it were as simple as being under the influence of a love charm,_ Dean thought wistfully.

"Fuck off, Sam," he said.


	9. The Kisses of His Mouth

It wasn't all bad, living with Father Desmond instead of the Winchesters. The first week passed in a blur of homesickness mixed with excitement as Castiel slowly discovered himself to be far more capable as a human than he had ever thought he could be.

The strict regimen of a priest's day appealed to him vastly. Rising early to bathe and grab a quick breakfast. Early morning Mass, followed by several hours in a classroom teaching and interacting with children that he came to care for more and more each day. Their quick minds and ready laughter made each lesson an adventure in learning not only for the students, but for the teacher as well.

Of course, there were down sides too. His first lunch in the school cafeteria was terrifying. The choice of foods, the hustle and bustle and constant noise, confused him to the point that he froze in line, the flow of people parting around him, until one of the students took pity on the bewildered priest and walked him down the counter, suggesting certain items and warning him off from others. In gratitude, Castiel pulled some cash from his pocket and, over the boy's protests, paid for both their lunches.

Later, sitting alone at a corner table, Castiel picked at his meal and made careful study of his fellow diners. Many of the faces looked as lost and lonely as he felt. Perhaps such feelings were not unique to him? Perhaps, he was indeed simply human.

Evenings passed pleasantly with soft classical music playing in the background as Castiel prepared the next day's lessons or corrected papers, while Father Desmond wrote sermons and made plans for upcoming events. Their meals were simple, but filling. Sometimes, if other duties were not more pressing, the two men would watch television, or talk for hours about places and things they had seen, or argue amicably about obscure translations of various religious tracts. Father Desmond even taught Castiel how to play chess and was much chagrined to find how quickly the pupil surpassed the teacher.

Nighttimes were the worst...

Alone in his tiny room, Castiel's mind inevitably turned to Dean. Time after time, he withdrew the photo strip from his pocket to stare at the hunter's face, tucked it away, only to draw it out again. When the ache in his heart became too much to bear, he would creep downstairs and seek out Milly's company. Stroking the tabby's soft fur and pouring his secret anguish into her sympathetic ears, Castiel prayed that the endless nights would end. They didn't, but they became more bearable with time, partly because Milly took it upon herself to mend Castiel's broken heart. Instead of waiting for him to come to her, she accompanied him up the stairs when he retired and spent her nights curled on the pillow next to his head. Her purr was the last thing he heard before sleep overtook him and the first sound to greet his ears when his eyes opened with the morning light.

The first weekend threw him for a loop. Without a routine to follow, Castiel looked at the empty hours stretching before him and felt a wave of despair so profound that he almost wept. Fortunately, Father Desmond gave him no time to sit and mope.

"Can you swing a hammer, Castiel?" he said, clattering down the stairs in tattered jeans and a well-worn pair of work boots. Only the collar peeking from beneath his dark shirt betrayed him as a priest.

"Swing a hammer?" Castiel parroted. "I do not understand."

"No matter," Father Desmond laughed. "You have a good, strong back. We'll find something for you to do. Go change your clothes."

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked a few minutes later, climbing into the passenger seat of an old Ford truck that had definitely seen better days. His jeans and boots were new, but he was eager to break them in. He had briefly considered wearing one of his new blue T-shirts as well but, in the end, he followed Father Desmond's example and left his dark shirt and Roman collar in place. After all, it was important to stay in character. He had learned that from observing Dean down through the years, and he could think of no better role model to follow.

"Have you ever heard of Habitat for Humanity?" Father Desmond replied. "I'm on the board of directors for the Sioux Falls Chapter, but I like to do hands-on work whenever I can. We're putting up three houses. We can use all the help we can get."

"Jesus was a carpenter," Castiel murmured, a sweet and gentle smile curving his lips.

"And he tended to the poor and needy," Father Desmond said. "Which reminds me, we're desperately short-handed at the soup kitchen. And the Ladies Auxiliary would love to get their hands on a handsome young man like you – someone to do all the heavy work at the church bazaar and drink gallons of tea while they complain about their husbands. "

Castiel's smile widened. Suddenly, there didn't seem to be enough hours in a day.

* * *

_These kids may be rich and pampered, but they're a bunch of pigs,_ Dean thought, unhappily mopping up a trail of muddy footprints. Two weeks of cleaning up one disgusting mess after another had proven that to be painfully true. _If I see one more puddle of puke, I'm going to be the next in line to hurl._

A few doors further down the hall, Sam finished changing a burnt out fluorescent bulb and climbed back down the ladder. He might as well have not been there for all the notice a passing gaggle of students gave him. Who needed Frodo's magic cloak bestowing the power of invisibility? Obviously, khaki-coloured coveralls and a matching baseball cap served the same purpose. Sam folded up the ladder and winked at Dean as he passed him, heading for a nearby utility closet. Dean snorted in amusement. How anyone could miss the Sasquatch lumbering in their midst was anybody's guess.

A bell rang, signalling the end of one period and the start of the next, and Dean drew back against the wall to let the crowd sweep past him unimpeded. Intently, he scanned the faces of the passers-by, trying to spot something off in someone's demeanour. But, as far as he could tell, they were all just normal kids.

Maybe they were going about this the wrong way. Maybe it wasn't a student or one of the teaching staff. Hell, maybe it was the old priest.

_Maybe I should mention that to Cas,_ Dean fretted.

As if conjured up by the thought, Castiel appeared in the corridor, exiting his classroom. A smile was on his face as he spoke with one of his students: a tall, green-eyed brunette who wore too much makeup and a skirt which thumbed its nose at the length prescribed by the school's dress code. She began to trot down the hall in heels that were, like Barbie's, too high to be practical. Castiel slowed his steps to match her pace.

"Angie! Father Novak! Wait up!" a voice called, and the brunette and Castiel turned to face the speaker. Seconds later, almost a dozen girls swarmed around them: bright, multicoloured tropical birds circling a jet black crow, each vying for his attention. Preening. Posing. Chirping mindlessly.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes from the strange sight. Cas had groupies? Luscious-lipped, nubile, fawning groupies? And Cas... He didn't seem to mind at all! He just stood there, a bemused half smile on his face as he followed their various conversations, responding at appropriate moments and so intent on their inane chatter that he didn't even notice Dean standing there, not six feet away.

"Jail bait, Dean," Sam's voice whispered in his ear. "Stop drooling."

_I wasn't looking at the girls,_ Dean almost answered, managing to bite the words back at the last second.

"Jail bait," Sam repeated, a touch of desperation in his voice. "Christ, look at the legs on that blonde – I mean, no. Don't look!"

_I didn't,_ Dean thought absentmindedly. _I was looking at Cas._

And that was when it hit him. He wasn't looking at the girls? All those hot little numbers on parade and his eyes were on a dude dressed as a priest?

Castiel's blue eyes sparkled as he replied in French to something Angie – or was it Susie or Tiffany or fucking Jezebel? – said in the same language. The girls giggled and one handed him her notebook. Castiel drew a pen from his pocket and wrote something down before handing the notebook back. Another flurry of excited twittering ensued.

Dean was in motion before his brain knew what his feet were doing.

"Excuse me," he said, ignoring the plethora of surprised eyes that were suddenly trained upon him, his focus narrowed down to Castiel's familiar, questioning head tilt and his deep blue stare. "Father Novak... May I speak with you in private?"

"Yes, of course," Castiel said easily. His eyes flicked to the name tag sewn on Dean's uniform. "Mr. Bonham. If you would excuse us, ladies?" His hands made shooing motions and the girls, despite their obvious annoyance, swiftly disbanded. "I was just heading for my office. If you would care to join me, I – "

"We'll use my office instead," Dean growled, grabbing Castiel by the arm and hustling him the few steps necessary to reach the utility closet. The door slammed shut behind them.

"Uh..." Sam said uncertainly. He tapped lightly on the closet door. "Dean?"

"Go away, Sam," Dean bellowed.

Sam shrugged, picked up Dean's abandoned mop and began to swipe it back and forth across the floor.

* * *

It was the first time Dean and Castiel had been in the same room since that disastrous morning at Bobby's. Hell, five minutes ago was the first they had even spoken in all that time. Sam had served as the point of contact – not that there had been much information to impart. This hunt was going nowhere fast.

Castiel gazed silently at Dean, patiently waiting to hear whatever it was he thought was so important that it couldn't wait. It was hard to tell in the dimly lit closet, but it appeared dark shadows once again resided beneath the hunter's eyes. Castiel frowned in concern. Misreading the ex-angel's expression, Dean's heart sank and the sound of his nervous breathing filled the enclosed space.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean said finally, ending a seeming eon of silent staring and internal debate. He wet his lips and stepped closer.

"Sorry?" Castiel said blankly. "You have done nothing to be sorry for. It was I who – "

"Call it an apology in advance," Dean sighed. His hands shot out to firmly anchor Castiel's head in place as he surged forward and mashed their lips together.

For a moment – for an awful, eternal moment – Castiel went utterly rigid in Dean's grasp, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth frozen in a tight line. And then, with a little mewl of surrender, he melted against Dean's chest, his arms coming up to wrap Dean in a hug that left him breathless – or maybe it was Castiel's mouth springing to life beneath his that stole Dean's breath away.

Castiel kissed the same way he fought: pouring all he was into the endeavour, giving everything he had, holding nothing back.

Dean moaned, and Castiel's mouth opened wider: drawing him further in, deepening the kiss, holding him closer, tighter, as if in fear Dean would vanish if his grip slackened for a moment.

There was little chance of that. Dean was exactly where he'd longed to be. His hands slid down Castiel's cheeks and caressed his jaw, moved up to ruffle through his already unruly hair and trailed down his neck until they bumped against his clerical collar. And there they halted. Dean opened eyes he didn't remember closing, and stared at Castiel's flushed, blissed-out face.

Unwillingly, he drew his mouth away, Castiel swaying forward with a low growl of protest as he followed Dean's retreat. "Cas," Dean whispered, voice hoarse and trembling slightly from the effort of reining in his runaway desire.

Castiel managed to entice him into several more long and deliciously sloppy kisses.

"Cas!" Dean begged. "Stop. We have to stop."

"Why?" Castiel groaned, sounding utterly and completely wrecked, and for a few seconds Dean's mind went blank.

Why indeed? His thumb stroked the pulse point just above the Roman collar, feeling the blood leap up to meet his touch, hot and eager...

_Priest!_ His brain screamed. _Priest, you idiot! The job!_

Oh. Yeah.

Dean's lips trailed a line of kisses from Castiel's left ear down to the collar, sucking lightly on the heated flesh, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Later. Later he would mark this man as his.

"Dean..." Castiel's low voice rumbled. "Don't stop." His eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flared and his mouth parted on a gasp that was equally a sigh as he angled his head back to encourage further ravishment. "Please, Dean... I want... I need... more..."

"Not here," Dean whispered. "Not like this. Your first time isn't going to be a quick, rough tumble in a broom closet. I have plans..."

"Oh..." Castiel said weakly, torn between disappointment and anticipation. "What kind of plans?"

"Good plans." Dean smiled and kissed Castiel's pouting lips, stilling further questions. "But first we have a coven to disband, _Father_ Novak. Which means we need another plan before we implement the first..."

"Plans are good," Castiel murmured, nuzzling his way down Dean's neck. He was not at all cautious about leaving a mark behind.

Dean gasped, tilting his head back wantonly. "Cas... Fuck, Cas, I can't think when you do that."

A low laugh rumbled in Castiel's chest. With a final sharp nip and a quick lick of apology, he drew back enough that there was a bit of space between them. "Heaven forbid I should impede your thinking process," he teased.

"Heaven!" Dean exclaimed. "That's it! What if we rev up your mojo? Maybe you can zero in on the witches and we can..." He blushed. "We can find more interesting things to do with our time."

"It's worth a try," Castiel agreed. "Purely in the interests of solving this case, of course."

"Of course." Dean grinned and began to unbutton the top of his long-sleeved shirt, pushing the fabric off his shoulder to give Castiel better access to his brand. "Are you ready?"

Castiel's warm hand slotted into place and he nodded expectantly.

"Oh, God," Dean intoned. "Oh, God... Oh, God..."

Castiel kissed him.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" Dean moaned and threw himself into the kiss.

And the world dissolved into a radiant wash of light.

* * *

The floor was spotless and not a single smudge of dirt remained on the windows up and down the hall in the vicinity of the utility closet. Sam was running out of reasons to linger and thus stand guard.

_Should I knock?_ he wondered. _They've been in there a long time..._

He raised his hand to strike the door and lowered it uncertainly. _Five more minutes,_ he thought. _Ten minutes tops. What harm could come from that?_

And that is when brilliant rays of light shot out from cracks all around the door frame.

"Holy shit!" Sam exclaimed, backing away. He'd never seen blue and green streaks mixed in with the white like that before. What the hell were they doing in there? It looked as if the aurora borealis had exploded.

"What's going on here?" a shocked voice cried. Sam turned to see a teacher and several students standing behind him.

"Uh... bug zapper," he said. "We're fumigating the closet. There was this really big nest of cockroaches and we didn't want it to infest the whole school."

"Oh... I see," the teacher said uncertainly. "All right then... I guess. You're sure we shouldn't call the fire department?"

"No, no, it's supposed to do that. It's the latest thing. The Exterminator 2000."

The light began to fade.

"See?" Sam babbled. "It's entering its next phase. We just need to keep that door shut and let it do its job."

Casting suspicious looks over her shoulder, the teacher motioned for her class to follow and they vanished around a corner.

Sam slumped against the wall and glared at the utility closet. And then he quickly stepped across the hall and started hammering on the door.

* * *

Castiel slowly and reluctantly drew his lips away from Dean's and brushed his fingers across the hunter's bare chest as he removed his hand from his shoulder. Dean blinked, his eyes glazed and heavy-lidded, and Castiel smiled, knowing a very similar look must be on his own face.

"Whoa... That was... that was incredible," Dean murmured, obviously still dazed.

Castiel nodded and clumsily began to button up Dean's shirt.

"I mean, seriously, dude. That was..." He gestured helplessly.

"Incredible?" Castiel said, leaning in to kiss him again.

The handprint on Dean's shoulder pulsed in rhythm with the slow and tender movement of Castiel's clever mouth...

Dean was seriously beginning to consider modifying his plan to wait when the echoes of Grace throbbing in his head suddenly resolved into a pounding sound on the closet door.

Sam...

Once again, Dean and Castiel's lips reluctantly parted and they simply stood there for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing in each other's breath until their galloping heartbeats slowed to a less frantic pace.

"Would you like me to take care of this for you?" Castiel offered, running a fingertip across the vivid bruise he'd left on Dean's neck.

"No," Dean said. "I want to keep it. To remind me..." He smiled shyly.

Castiel smiled back.

Sam kept pounding away on the door.

Dean pulled a face and turned to open the door part way, poking his head outside. "Is the coast clear?" he asked, cautiously peering around.

"It is now," Sam sighed. "God, Dean, I never thought I'd have to say this to you, but... it's time to come out of the closet."

"Ha ha," Dean said, and drew his head back inside.

Sam heard the rustle of clothing sliding against clothing, followed by wet smacking sounds and indistinct whispering.

"Be careful," Dean murmured.

"I will," Castiel replied.

The door opened fully and a tousled-looking priest stepped from the closet, straightening his crooked collar. Dean sidled out behind him and closed the door.

"I'll be in touch," Castiel murmured, and strode off down the hall without a backwards glance.

"I think you already have been," Sam muttered under his breath, eyeing the huge hickey which adorned Dean's neck. He wasn't the least bit surprised when his red-faced brother punched him in the arm. Hard. Twice.

* * *

Castiel's feet might have seemed firmly planted on the tiled floor as he walked briskly down the corridor towards his office, but his body was trembling, shaken to the very core. His calm, detached demeanour was pure illusion. His pulse was racing, his palms were sweaty, and his lungs could not seem to keep up with a sudden, desperate need for extra oxygen. Every nerve cell from head to toe was tingling and painfully aware that each step he took led him further away from where he longed to be: with Dean. Pressed as close to him as it was possible for two separate entities to get. How he longed to turn around and let his feet lead him back where his heart commanded.

First things first, though.

Find the witches.

Stop the witches.

Find Dean.

And then... and then...

Castiel wasn't really sure what would happen next. That it might involve more kissing was his fervent hope. That it might also involve touching and eventual nudity was not outside the realm of possibility. But, beyond that, he had no concrete expectations. After all, his only point of reference was a sleazy porno movie – which really did not seem to apply to his situation as no females or pizza men were involved. Hopefully, Dean would know the solution to this dilemma...

Castiel's head abruptly lifted and he scented the air. Evil. There was evil in this building. And it was close by.

An outraged surge of Grace crackled through his veins like electricity though a wire. With a thought, he sent tendrils of it questing out in search of his quarry.

There. That way.

Quick footsteps carried Castiel down a flight of stairs. Sparing the little 'Nurse's Office – Room 106' plaque no more than a cursory glance, he flung open the door and stepped inside.

Janice Purvis looked up from the injury she was bandaging and smiled warmly. "Father Novak," she said. "I'll be right with you." She patted a wan-faced student on his shoulder. "There you go, Eric," she soothed. "Next time try to cut just the cardboard, not your hand."

Eric nodded and slipped out through the door.

"What can I do for you, Father?"

"I know what you are," Castiel growled.

"I am many things," came the swift reply. "Wife, mother, nurse, concerned citizen..."

"Witch."

"That too," Janice admitted quietly.

"You do not bother to deny it?"

"Why should I?" Janice shrugged. "Not all witches are evil." She quietly moved to close the door before turning back towards Castiel. "But those of us who are, are very good at it."

The last thing Castiel saw before his world faded to black was Janice Purvis's hand shooting up from her uniform's pocket to toss a noxious cloud of dust in his face.

* * *

Castiel was nowhere to be found, and Sam was going to be forced to sedate his brother if they didn't find him soon. Dean had left frantic far behind him at the end of the first hour. Now, three hours into Castiel's disappearance, he was ready to tear the school apart brick by brick with his bare hands. God help the fool that tried to stop him. He had already made poor Father Desmond cry and scared his cat out of one of her nine lives.

Dean's janitor uniform lay crumpled on the floor of the utility closet where he and Castiel had – well, where they had done whatever it was they'd decided to do. Sam's brain didn't want to delve too deeply into the mystery of what exactly had transpired between them. It was enough to know that Castiel was all mojoed up. Not that he had achieved anything close to angel status, but Dean estimated his mojo tank was at least a quarter full. Maybe closer to a third. That should have been more than adequate to defend himself against a few simple spells and potions. That it obviously had not been was further proof that they were not up against one of your run of the mill witches. It spoke of power. Vast and ancient power.

"Damn." Sam sighed and began to shed his own uniform in favour of the dark suit and tie Bobby had delivered to the school. With no Superman in sight to save the day, this looked like a job for the FBI...

* * *

Federal Agent Dean Jagger prowled the halls of the O'Gorman Catholic High School with a scowl on his face and cold fury in his heart. Sam and Bobby were conducting 'official' interviews, slowly and surely accumulating evidence – he had no patience with that. Castiel had to be here. No one had seen him leave. A quick check at the principal's office showed no one – staff or student – had signed out early. Not that he could take that roster as gospel. There were many exits to this school, not all of them closely monitored.

Only an hour remained before the final bell of the day signalled dismissal. Then the floodgates would open and both the innocent and the guilty would be free to leave. Instead of the narrow confines of the school, all of Sioux Falls would become the witches' playing field. Hell, the whole state, the whole damned country would open up to them...

_I have to find Cas... now! _Dean thought desperately, trotting down a set of stairs leading from the second level to the first.

A tinkle of breaking glass in a room off to the left of the staircase captured his attention just as the handprint on his left arm began to gently tingle. Dean crept down the hall towards a room marked 'Nurse's Office'. A second crash sounded from behind the closed door, followed by a woman's cry of either fear or anger. Dean's money was on the latter. That voice sounded royally pissed. A third resounding crash and a most un-ladylike string of curses confirmed his suspicion.

Dean eased open the door and peered inside just in time to see a desk lamp go sailing past to smash against the wall.

"That fucking bitch!" a tall brunette cried as she upended a desk drawer on the floor and stomped on its contents.

"What's going on here?" Dean demanded.

"Who the fuck are you?" Startled green eyes met an answering green glower.

"Federal Agent Dean Jagger," Dean barked. "And you are? Wait. I know you. Angie. You're Angie."

Angie backed away until Mrs. Purvis's ergonomic office chair stood between her and Dean. "How does the FBI know about me?" she whispered. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"We both know that's a lie," Dean said, stepping closer. "What have you done with Cas?"

"Cass? I don't know anyone called Cass. Who is she?"

"He," Dean spat. "Castiel. Father Novak. Where is he?"

"You're not FBI," Angie said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously and then opening wide as she recognized Dean in turn. "You're that janitor. What's Father Novak to you?"

"He's my – "

_My what?_ Dean thought, his heart pounding in his breast and the handprint throbbing in rhythm with its frantic beat. _My angel... my boyfriend... my soon to be lover..._

"My friend," he finished lamely, blushing as Angie's eyes swept to the hickey on his neck.

_Yeah, so what? He did that. Not that it's any of your business. _

_He's mine... and I am his._

"I have no idea where you misplaced him," Angie coolly replied.

Dean growled and lunged forward. Angie shrieked and shrank back against the wall as he seized the heavy chair and casually tossed it through the window in a most satisfying explosion of glass and noise.

"I'll ask you one more time, and then you're going to follow that chair," Dean said. "Where is Cas?"

"You wouldn't dare..."

"Try me."

Angie wilted beneath the force of his glare and burst into tears, all her bravado gone.

"It was Mrs. Purvis," Angie sobbed, "She recruited a select few of us, promised us whatever dreams we had would come true. Whatever boy we wanted. Whatever university. All we had to do was chant a few silly words and dance around in a circle now and then. Dumb B-grade movie stuff. But what she said was true. Good things came our way."

"But that wasn't enough, was it?" Dean said softly. "She wanted more. You all wanted more."

Angie nodded. "She said we needed to perform a human sacrifice in order to achieve the ultimate in power. A virgin sacrifice... and we'd be unstoppable. And it had to happen on the new moon."

"That's tonight," Dean said, glancing at a wall calendar with 'October 26' circled twice in red. "I would have expected her to favour All Hallows Eve. That's when all the other crazies come out."

"Not for this spell," Angie said. "New moon, new beginnings. Dark night, dark deeds. We were going to use Sarah Marie, but the stupid skank went and fucked the captain of the football team last week. Mrs. Purvis said the older the virgin, the stronger the blood sacrifice would be. We couldn't take a chance on the other seniors, because we didn't have time to wade through their bullshit. Father D was out, because he was married a long time ago, but his wife died in a horrible car accident. Then Father Novak came along... and he was, like, perfect. He blushed if you so much as mentioned sex. What a waste that he's a priest! He's seriously hot – as if you haven't already figured that out. But whatever, right? Anyway... Mrs. Purvis drugged him and some of her disciples carried him away. Then, just before she left, the bitch said she didn't need us any more – he was all she needed. She could sense the power rolling off him in waves. Her master would be pleased..."

Perfect. Oh, yes, Cas was that and more. Purvis's master would be fucking ecstatic.

"Where did they take him?" Dean begged, trying hard to swallow around the lump of fear caught in his throat. His hand grasped Angie's arm, his fingers digging into the flesh.

"I don't know," Angie whined. "I only know where they'll be tonight. Sertoma Park. Somewhere just off the bike trail at the south end of the lake. You know, where it's shaped like a crooked bell? The pointy part, down by the river."

Dean fought the urge to shake her as a terrier shakes a rat. Instead, he slowly drew his hand away and gave the shivering teen the most fierce glare he could muster, a look that had once made Hell's foulest demons cower back in terror. "Consider yourself lucky that you won't be there," he snarled. "Tell your little friends that they'd best not show up either. And if you breathe a word of warning to that witch... or have anything further to do with the dark arts..."

"I won't," Angie whimpered. "I won't, I won't! I promise! I'm through with that."

Dean nodded and turned to leave.

"Mr. Jagger?" Angie called softly. "I hope you find Father Novak. I hope that he's okay."

"I hope so too," Dean said.

* * *

Sam, Dean and Bobby were lying in wait for the coven long before the sun's last rays crept below the horizon. The stars came out and the hours crawled by, but not a murmur of approaching voices was to be heard. Not a footstep rustled. Midnight – the witching hour – was but minutes away. Time was ticking out for Castiel.

"I think we're in the wrong place, Dean," Sam whispered. "Either Angie lied, or the witch misled her."

"Cas is here," Dean replied. Unconsciously, his hand reached up to rub at his left arm where the handprint was once again lightly throbbing. "He's near by. I feel it."

"He ain't here, son," Bobby said gently. "You're imagining things."

"No, I'm not," Dean said stubbornly, casting a hopeful gaze left and right. Slowly, he began to walk in a small circle, widening his search pattern. As he faced south a sudden sharp pain shot down his left arm, and he gasped and staggered slightly.

"Dean?" Sam rested a concerned hand on his brother's shoulder, spinning him around to face him. Instantly, the pain receded.

Ignoring Sam's worried frown, Dean turned south again. The pain returned. He stepped west... it lessened. He stepped east... it intensified. As if something – or someone – was roughly tugging him in that direction by the arm.

"I know where he is," Dean blurted. "Or, at least, I know which way we have to go."

"And how the hell do you know that?" Bobby grumbled, disbelief obvious in his voice.

"Because Cas is telling me," Dean answered quietly.

"That's a load of crap, boy," Bobby scoffed. "You're letting your imagination run away with you. We've been suckered into a wild goose chase. My best guess is they're holding their little soirée back at the school – and that's where we should be."

"You do what you have to, Bobby," Dean said. "I'm heading that way." He jerked his thumb to the east. "Sammy?"

But Sam was spared the effort of having to make a decision as a blast of light erupted in the east, bathing the forest with an eerie glow and sending leaves and debris whirling past as if a twister was passing through the park. Simultaneously with the blast, the tingly feeling in Dean's arm vanished, the connection severed. The scar was just a scar.

"Cas!" Dean hollered, and took off at a dead run, Sam and Bobby hard pressed to keep him in sight as they hastened down the path he'd taken, and without a prayer of catching up with his desperate, headlong flight.

* * *

_It looks likes an A-bomb went off here,_ was the first thing to cross Dean's mind as he burst into the newly created clearing half a mile from where they had thought the coven would meet. _It looks like my grave site,_ was his second thought. Except, instead of a grave at the epicentre, there was an inclined platform. And on this make-shift altar rested a man-sized, inverted cross. And laid out on the cross, immobilized by ropes tied around his wrists and ankles, was...

"Cas!"

Blue eyes turned a weary gaze his way as several quick strides brought Dean to Castiel's side.

"De – " he started to say, as Dean dropped to his knees beside the altar and ran trembling fingers through Castiel's sweat-matted hair. But before the ex-angel's lips could fully shape the name, the hunter's mouth was firmly pressed against his and Castiel found himself eagerly returning Dean's hungry kiss, a heartfelt response in a language that required no words, just an easy two-way flow of relief and profound devotion.

"What part of 'be careful' didn't you understand?" Dean chided, putting the lie to his annoyance with an even more passionate follow-up kiss, a kiss so deep and dirty that it made Castiel's back arch up away from the cross, his body shamelessly begging for Dean's touch, offering himself to the hunter to do with as he willed.

"Dean? _Dean?"_

His brother's frantic voice and the sound of Sam and Bobby crashing through the forest pulled Dean back from the brink of divine madness to a semblance of reason.

"Here, Sam," he called, shaking his head to clear it. "We're over here."

"Is everything all right?" Sam asked, stepping up to the altar and giving his kneeling brother and Castiel's swollen lips a speculative glance.

"Just peachy, Sam," Dean said. "We're all good here. Why don't you and Bobby have a look around while Cas and I... uh... talk."

"Sure," Sam agreed easily, and he and Bobby began to sift through the rubble, taking careful note of charred bodies and any remaining artifacts. If they wondered why Castiel had not yet been unbound, they made no mention of it.

"A little assistance, if you please, Dean," Castiel said calmly from his head down, tilted angle. "It would appear that I have expended all of my Grace and I am unable to free myself from these restraints."

"What were you going to do if I didn't show up to rescue you?" Dean asked, clambering to his feet and pulling a knife from his pocket.

"I know you will always come for me."

Dean raised an eyebrow, uncertain whether he should take Castiel's reply as an expression of faith... or as innuendo, given the kisses they had just shared. Once was probably a co-incidence, but twice...

_God help me if the tricky bastard starts making a habit of using double entendre..._

Sam's snort of amusement left little doubt as to his interpretation.

Castiel's face betrayed no clue as to his intent.

"Aren't virgins supposed to wear frilly white dresses?" Dean teased as he cut the ropes binding Castiel's arms and legs to the cross and helped him stand.

"Apparently there is a greater significance attached to these clerical garments," Castiel replied, rubbing his arms to restore circulation. "The desecration of a man of the cloth is not to be taken lightly."

_A man of the cloth,_ Dean thought angrily. _That Purvis bitch had no idea. Cas is as far above a priest as I am above an ant._

"She said she was going to slit my throat and bleed out my purity while she... rode me like a broomstick... I do not understand that reference."

And, oh yes, Dean's mind instantly went there. Only instead of Castiel being bound upon a cross, he was lying on a soft white cloud of silken sheets and fluffy pillows. And instead of the witch, it was Dean kneeling astride him...

"Dean?"

_I'm so going back to Hell,_ the thought flashed through Dean's mind and he stifled a whimper, his pupils dilating as a shiver travelled up his spine. _But I think he might be worth it._

"What did she mean, Dean? _Dean?"_

"Uh... it's a common misconception that witches fly around on brooms. But, in this case, she meant she was going to fuck you six ways from Sunday."

"Why do you humans find it necessary to employ so many euphemisms for the act of coitus?" Castiel said, more than a hint of exasperation colouring his words.

"Variety's the spice of life, Cas," Dean said weakly, the lingering image of himself riding Castiel slow to fade from his mind.

"Fortunately she required me to be conscious if I were to actively participate. That was her mistake."

"You woke up in time to smite her ass to kingdom come." Dean grinned.

"I did indeed," Castiel said proudly, looking around the devastated, smouldering crater which was all that remained of a once pristine forest.

Sam and Bobby continued to prowl the site, flashlights bobbing this way and that as the glow from the conflagration slowly began to fade, returning the clearing to the cover of the night. Now that Castiel had been set free, Sam turned his attention from the perimeters to the altar. His finger traced the outlines of several deeply carved sigils, and a frown creased his forehead.

"Dean. Cas," he called. "You might want to take a look at this. I hope I'm wrong... but I think this sigil is a name."

Dean and Castiel leaned in to peer at the carving, their shoulders touching and the backs of their hands surreptitiously caressing each other.

Castiel drew a sharp breath, and his hand suddenly clenched into a fist.

"Crowley," he said.


	10. Set Me as a Seal Upon Thine Heart

The long walk back to where they had left their vehicles parked was a sombre one. Bobby and Sam conversed in low, agitated tones as they followed the narrow path their flashlights shed, eerie shadows lurking just beyond the light's reach. Castiel and Dean trailed several yards behind, sharing the single flashlight in Dean's possession, both men silent and wrapped in thought. The twisted skeletons of trees loomed overhead, branches like greedy, grasping fingers reaching down to snag clothing and hair as they passed by, as if envying the humans their mobility.

Sam and Bobby increased their pace, leaving Dean and Castiel alone, hidden from sight by a turn in the trail and the darkness of the night. Dean's glance slid sideways to Castiel's face, a pale oval floating along beside him: his jaw clenched, his brow creased.

In a gesture that felt comfortably familiar, as if he'd done it a thousand times instead of this being the first, Dean casually slipped his hand into Castiel's and kept walking.

Castiel's head turned Dean's way and surprised blue eyes flicked from his face, down to their joined hands, and back up to his face again.

Dean squeezed his fingers reassuringly and gave him a small smile. "It's all right, Cas," he said. "We'll figure this out. Nothing's changed. We knew Crowley was out there."

"But now he knows I am here," Castiel growled, stopping in his tracks and giving Dean's hand a tug until the hunter was pulled up tight against his chest. Castiel's free arm came up to wrap around Dean, crushing him closer still. "He'll come for me. He'll come for me... and he'll find you."

"We don't know he knows," Dean murmured, leaning into the solid warmth Castiel's body offered. "The witch only knew you as Father Novak. You escaped before any blood sacrifice was made. And that clearing is in ashes now, we burned everything before we left. Everything you left for us to burn, that is. You were pretty thorough, Cas."

"Crowley's name upon the altar was more than sufficient to establish a connection. When the ceremony commenced, he knew all that happened as it happened. He undoubtedly felt the power I unleashed – he would instantly recognize it as mine. It is just a matter of time before he pinpoints my location."

"Then we'll have to stop him," Dean said. "I won't let him take you away from me."

"He won't be easy to stop."

Dean snorted. "When has anything ever been easy for me?" he said lightly. "We'll deal with him, Cas. When he comes – if he comes – we'll be ready. Until then..."

"Until then," Castiel echoed, his eyes softening as he eagerly welcomed Dean's lips with his own, the lingering kiss both reassurance and promise, a comfort both men needed very much at that moment.

"Ahem..." A discreet cough came from behind them. "Uh, sorry to interrupt, guys, but I heard sirens. The authorities are on their way. It's best if we're not here to answer their questions."

"Thank you, Sam," Dean said, the words tickling against Castiel's lips. With a final, gentle brush of his mouth against the ex-angel's, he slowly stepped back and turned to face his brother: chin up, his stance defiant, his fingers still firmly tangled with Castiel's.

"You go ahead with Bobby," he ordered. "Cas and I will be along in a bit."

"Okay." Sam nodded. With a final glance at Dean and Castiel's linked hands, he turned and loped back down the trail.

"Dean..." Castiel said as they followed at a more sedate pace. His fingers tightened reflexively and he felt an answering tension in Dean's grip upon his hand.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Dean asked.

"No. I don't think you will."

"Spit it out," Dean sighed.

"I am not returning with you to Bobby's," Castiel said quietly.

"You're not what?"

"I cannot protect you as I am now. My presence will put you in danger."

"So will your absence," Dean argued heatedly. "Crowley will try to find you through me. Bobby's will be the first place he looks – whether you're there or not is immaterial."

"Perhaps. But you will be safe. He will not be able to break through the wards."

"Isn't that a damned good reason for you to be there with us? It's not just about _you_ protecting _me_, Cas. I want – I _need_ – to keep you safe too."

"I know..."

"Then it's settled. You're coming back to Bobby's with me."

"No. I am not. I will – soon," Castiel hastened to reassure. "I concede that we have a better chance if we make a stand together. But not yet. Not tonight. In addition to my concerns for your safety, I have obligations to meet."

"Are you really willing to gamble that Crowley won't just suddenly pop up and grab you?"

"I am fairly certain he will require time to make arrangements for the attempt. Remember, Dean, he does not know that I am human. He believes I am still powered by all those dark souls. He will be rightfully wary. I think the most opportune moment for him to launch an attack will be All Hallows Eve, when those who practise black magic are most active and can lend their strength to his. That is five days from now. One day more than I need. Ample time for me to do what I must do."

"You _think_. But you don't _know_. Cas, are these obligations of yours worth risking your life for?"

"I cannot simply disappear from the school without saying goodbye to my students. Father Desmond will require a few days to arrange a replacement for me – time I can put to use making certain that all traces of the coven have been eliminated. Also, I am helping to set up something called a church bazaar on Saturday morning and that afternoon I am assisting in the construction of a house. Sunday afternoon I'm on post-bazaar clean-up duty, which I am given to understand is tantamount to being the Ladies Auxiliary's slave. I have a shift at the soup kitchen when they are through with me. And then there's Milly... poor Milly must be made to understand that we will no longer be able to sleep together."

"Who the fuck is Milly?" Dean shook his hand free from Castiel's and waved it furiously in the air. "Is she the blonde with the long legs?"

"No, she is grey with – "

"A cougar?" Dean rolled his eyes. "You let some cougar sink her claws in you? I thought you were still a virgin!"

"I believe she has been de-clawed... and my virginity is intact."

"That's what they all say."

"Dean..." Castiel stopped walking and cupped Dean's face in his hand, meeting his angry glare with a level gaze. "While your jealousy is as flattering as it is unexpected, you should know that no one could ever compete with you for my affections. Milly is a cat."

"A cat?"

Castiel nodded.

"I'm jealous of a cat."

"Yes."

"I'm an ass."

Castiel tilted Dean's head until his lips were perfectly aligned for a kiss, his free hand sliding down Dean's spine until it rested on the curve of his backside. "Such a lovely ass," Castiel whispered, and kissed him.

* * *

"I still don't like this," Dean grumbled as the Impala made its way up South Kiwanis Avenue en route to Father Desmond's house. "I mean, I think it's great that you've developed a sense of responsibility and made friends. Sam and I rarely get to see what happens next. Tidying up after a case has never been our strong point... it's so much easier to just move on." He shot a glance at Castiel. "But here you've gone and made a life for yourself. I gotta hand it to you... you've become a real boy, Pinocchio."

"I do not know who that is."

"Of course you don't," Dean chuckled. "The important thing is that you know who you are. Some humans don't learn that in a lifetime. What I'm saying, Cas, is that I'll understand if you want to keep that new life. Once we gank Crowley, I mean."

"I do not want a new life. I am content with the one I have. Here. With you."

"The world's your oyster, Cas. I'm not much of a consolation prize."

"Four days, Dean," Castiel said firmly. "Four days, and then I am yours."

"Oh, God," Dean moaned. "Oh, God! When you say it like that, I – "

"Dean!"

"Oh, shit, shit, no! Maybe no one will notice!"

An already glowing Castiel was far beyond caring if they did.

Without bothering to signal, Dean jerked the steering wheel into a quick left turn and the Impala tore into the school parking lot, leaving a curved streak of rubber behind on the pavement. Dean's eyes darted left and right, seeking cover, any cover. The best he could manage on such short notice was a little stand of trees opposite the football field. Praying the vegetation and the late hour would sufficiently hide them from view, he parked as close to the grove as he could get without damaging his baby's paint job and turned off the engine. Twisting in his seat to face Castiel, he was startled to suddenly receive an armful of frantic ex-angel. Castiel's fingers tore at his shirt, desperate to touch his mark, as his mouth blindly sought Dean's.

"Oh, God," Dean moaned a third time, and Castiel shuddered and pressed himself even closer to the hunter, almost climbing into his lap, prevented from doing so only by the unforgiving presence of the steering wheel.

As their lips finally connected, the interior of the Impala was consumed by an unearthly burst of light: greens and blues and brilliant white all woven together in an intricate array that so dazzled Dean's eyes that he closed them and simply melted into Castiel's embrace.

Time ceased to have any meaning. Dean drifted in a haze of light and pleasure. Nothing existed but Castiel, his touch a gentle caress now that the urgency had passed, his kiss slowing and deepening into something more than a simple press of lips on lips. It was a tasting of Dean's soul, a breathing in of his very essence. It was at once both the most intoxicating and most frightening experience Dean had ever known. He had no words to describe this level of intimacy.

"Oh..." he whispered helplessly. "Oh..."

"Oh, Castiel," Castiel prompted, his voice a sandpapery rumble deep in his chest. "My name. Call my name, Dean."

"Cas..." Dean whimpered.

"Say it, Dean." Castiel tightened his grip on the brand.

"Cas," he said. And louder: "Cas!"

Castiel shook his head and his mouth abruptly replaced his fingers on Dean's scar. His cheeks hollowed as he began to suckle upon the suddenly burning flesh.

"Castiel!" Dean roared... and came. Just like that. Just like a horny teenager touched for the first time.

Castiel held Dean as vicious aftershocks wracked his body, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his temples, before returning his full attention to Dean's mouth, drinking in each sigh, each fevered moan.

"I thought... I thought we were going to wait?" Dean murmured weakly.

"You said _I_ had to wait," Castiel replied, vastly amused and more than a little smug. "As this is not _your_ first time, I saw no reason why I should deny you your release."

"You bastard," Dean drawled, grabbing a fistful of Castiel's hair and dragging his head down for a long and luscious kiss. A smirk flickered across his face as their lips parted, and Castiel stared at him with growing trepidation.

"Oh – " Dean said clearly and deliberately.

"Dean, do you think that's wise? We are already, as you might say, pushing our luck here. What if someone comes along and – "

" – God," Dean concluded firmly, and kissed him.

* * *

It was a very long time before the Impala pulled up to the curb outside of Father Desmond's house. The lights were still on, as if the priest was keeping vigil, praying for Castiel's safe return, but the curtains were pulled and the neighbourhood was silent and still.

"Virtue still intact there, Cas?" Dean teased, watching as Castiel shifted restlessly in his seat.

"Yes. No thanks to you," Castiel grumbled.

"Fried a few brain cells holding yourself back, did you?" Dean stretched and yawned luxuriously. "At least I know I'll sleep well tonight."

"Show off. Three times... is that not somewhat extravagant?"

"A personal best – considering you barely touched me and I had pants on the whole time." Dean grinned. "I can't wait to see what happens when you kick loose."

"Believe me, Dean," Castiel growled, "if it were not for the fact that I might have to serve as bait, my pesky virginity would no longer be an issue."

"Whoa. What?" Dean said, all traces of humour gone. "Don't go playing the martyr, Cas. We're going to tackle Crowley as a team. Remember? No heroics."

Castiel nodded stiffly, but did not resist when Dean reached over and took his hand.

"I'm sorry I was a tease," Dean whispered. "It wasn't only to get under your skin, though. I truly want you mojoed up so you can defend yourself when Sam and I aren't around."

"In that you were successful. You will be pleased to know my 'battery' is almost half full now."

"That's great," Dean said with a grin. "I super-charged you, huh?"

"So it would seem."

"Then I trust, this time, you will manage to keep out of trouble – at least for the next four days."

"I shall endeavour to do so."

"Four days..." Dean lamented. "How can you bear the wait?"

"I have spent the entirety of my existence waiting for you," Castiel said softly. "Four days is as nothing compared to that."

"Fuck, Cas, I don't know what to say..."

"Tell me you will think about me."

"I'll think of nothing but you," Dean admitted readily, leaning over to nuzzle Castiel's neck, steadily working his way around the jaw and up towards the lips he longed to claim.

"Tell me that you – "

Father Desmond's front door opened, spilling a rectangle of light across the lawn, the sudden illumination sending Dean and Castiel skittering guiltily apart.

"Castiel?" the old priest cried in a voice that quaked with hope. "Castiel, is it really you?"

Castiel shot Dean a look of regret and opened the car door. "It is I, Father," he said, stepping out of the Impala and awkwardly patting Father Desmond on the back when he rushed forward to embrace him. "I am well."

"Bless you, my son," Father Desmond called out to Dean, who stood on the far side of the Impala, bemusedly observing the reunion. "You have returned the lost lamb to the flock."

_More like I'm delivering a wolf in sheep's clothing,_ Dean thought giddily. _A very sexy wolf... with entirely too many clothes on for my liking._

"I'm glad I could help," he said lamely. "And, Father... about this afternoon."

"You were distraught. All is forgiven." He hooked his hand around Castiel's elbow and beamed. "Would you care to join us, Dean? I think the occasion calls for a celebratory drink."

"Thank you, perhaps another time," Dean replied, edging himself closer to the Impala the better to conceal the telling stain on his jeans. "I'd better get home. Bobby and Sam are probably waiting up for me." And didn't the thought of that send a shiver of dread down his spine. He could just imagine the look on their faces if he walked in flaunting a wet patch the size of Texas. Oh the horror! Hopefully he had some clean clothing stashed in the trunk, or they had given up on him and retired for the night.

"Please give my regards to Robert and your brother." Father Desmond yawned, and put a quick hand up to his mouth in dismay. "Pardon me," he said. "Perhaps the hour is later than I thought. Another time sounds eminently more practical. It's past time this old man was in bed." He cast a speculative glance from Dean to Castiel and Dean fought the urge to slap a hand over the hickey on his neck. "I'll just leave you to say your goodnights in private. Castiel, please remember to lock up. I'll see you in the morning and you can tell me all about your adventure then."

Dean and Castiel stood frozen in place as the priest returned to his house and closed the door behind him. Not a curtain twitched, but Dean felt embarrassingly exposed to view. "So... uh... I'll see you later," he said uncertainly.

"Four days, Dean." Castiel smiled, and a sudden, joyful pulse sang through the handprint on Dean's shoulder.

"Four days," Dean whispered, watching Castiel cross the lawn and disappear inside. "I can do four days. No problem."

* * *

"What is your problem, Dean?" Sam snapped, shoving his laptop back from the table's edge and turning an evil eye on his brother. "If you can't concentrate on research, that's fine. But do you have to sit there kicking my chair? I'm pretty sure I'm on to something, but I can't hear myself think over your heavy sighs. Can you go pine somewhere else?"

"I am not pining," Dean said, clearly offended. "I have a cramp. I was trying to stretch my legs."

"Well, go work your kink out somewhere else. Maybe a little 'alone time' in your room will make things better."

"Maybe kicking your ass will help," Dean growled.

"That's enough, boys," Bobby grumbled. "Sam, show me what you've found. Dean..." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Just get the hell out of here, will ya. Go for a walk. Or a drive. Better still, why don't you go check up on Cas and see how he's doing."

"A drive sounds good," Dean muttered. "Is there anything you need me to pick up while I'm out?"

"We're running low on salt," Bobby replied.

"Salt. Got it." Jangling his keys, Dean fled the room.

"He's not fooling anyone," Bobby remarked, leaning over Sam's shoulder and squinting at the screen.

"Only himself," Sam replied.

* * *

Traffic was surprising light for a Saturday. Dean made two quick stops, one at Walmart to purchase several large bags of salt, and the other at Verizon Wireless where he picked out the simplest cell phone they had in stock, figuring the fancier models were far too complicated for Castiel. It was a wise decision. Hell, it took Dean several minutes to figure out how to program the stupid thing. Thankfully, he only had three numbers to enter: his own, Sam's and Bobby's.

With a valid reason to visit safely tucked in his pocket, and Castiel's new phone number entered in his own directory, Dean turned the Impala towards East Amidon Street, figuring the Habitat for Humanity office could give him directions to their current project.

* * *

The worksite was a beehive of activity. The noise of hammers and saws and the smell of sawdust hit Dean long before the skeleton of the house came into view. He stood there for a moment, drinking in the sights and sounds of a life that had nothing to do with hunting. Castiel was nowhere to be seen but, now that he was here, Dean was in no rush to find him. He was content to observe, to soak up the easy banter and efficiency of the construction crew and pretend, just for a little while, that this was his world too.

"Can I help you?" a young woman inquired. A pink tool belt was slung low around her generous hips and she wore a matching pink hard hat. The tools, Dean was quick to note, while equally pink were well-worn and obviously cared for. The woman exuded an aura of competence and confidence.

"I'm looking for Father Novak," Dean replied.

"Oh!" Her face lit up at the mere mention of the name. "He's up there," she pointed skyward.

For an instant, Dean's startled glance went to the heavens, but his eyes quickly dropped back down to the top of the house. And there was Castiel: casually walking along a narrow beam with a hammer in his hand and several nails clamped between his lips. Dean found himself holding his breath until the balancing act was over. Castiel leaned over to receive a two-by-four from a man a floor below him. Heaving it into place, he knelt to pound nails into the base, then smoothly rose to attach the other end.

"Father Novak!" the woman hollered, before Dean could warn her not to startle the priest.

He need not have worried. Castiel turned his head and gave a casual wave of acknowledgement, a wide smile spreading across his face as he noticed Dean standing there. Nimbly, he swung himself to the scaffolding and clambered down. Dean could not help but notice his eyes were not the only ones that admired the way tight jeans framed Castiel's ass.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his brow. His cheeks were flushed, his hair windswept and, if Dean was not mistaken, he was beginning to sport a tan. It looked good on him. Very good. It brought out the blue in his eyes. Eyes that were caressing Dean's face in a very un-fatherly manner...

"Cas – Father Novak," Dean swiftly corrected himself. "I have something for you."

_"Oh?"_

God help him, the man was flirting with him. In front of – "I don't believe I caught your name." Dean turned to face the pink-favouring carpenter, more than a little pink himself, and hoping Castiel would follow his lead and behave himself.

"This is Nancy," Castiel said. "Nancy, this is Dean. My... friend."

"Pleased to meet you." Nancy grinned and reached out to shake Dean's hand. "There's coffee in that tent," she nodded behind them. "Some excellent pastries too. I just had my break, or I'd join you." Laughing to herself at how unlikely it was that either man desired her company, she trotted off towards the house.

"She knows," Dean said.

"She suspects... Do you mind?" Castiel said hesitantly.

"Not in the slightest." Dean smirked. "It's not my reputation that's suffering, _Father_ Novak."

Shoulders bumping, they wandered over to the tent. It was empty, save for the scent of coffee. Castiel grabbed Dean by the wrist and pulled him inside. "It's not my _reputation_ that is suffering either," he whispered. "I've missed you, Dean."

"I've missed you, too."

Suddenly, the few inches separating them were too much to bear. As one, they moved together, lips meeting in a hungry kiss, busy hands seeking reassurance that the other was really there, that it wasn't just another lonely dream...

Approaching voices sent them reeling apart before they could be discovered. By the time a half dozen workers trooped into the tent, Castiel was pouring coffee while Dean filled a paper plate with pastries.

Dean sipped coffee and stuffed his mouth with delicacies as he listened to the animated conversation the workers shared with Castiel. All too soon, the break was over and it was time to return to the job.

"Would your friend like to join us, Father? The more the merrier."

"Dean?" Castiel inquired hopefully. "Do you know how to swing a hammer?"

Dean smiled. "I do indeed," he said.

* * *

It was dusk by the time work was finished for the day. Dean stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning up against the Impala, fondly watching Castiel as he moved though the rapidly thinning crowd. The ex-angel's progress was slow, as he paused often to exchange a few words before continuing on his path back to Dean.

"They like you," Dean said as Castiel finally stood before him and the last remaining truck drove past, its occupants waving a cheerful farewell to them both. "They really like you, Cas."

"They are good people," Castiel replied. "Hard working, generous, kind. I once thought such goodness to be a rare commodity. I was wrong. So very wrong."

"You haven't exactly met prime examples of humanity hanging out with me." Dean sighed, staring blindly at the house which was well on its way to becoming someone's home. "But they're out there. They're the reason I do what I do. The good people. The innocents. The ones I'd die to protect, so they never have to live the life I live."

"Dean..." Castiel swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. "Your soul is the brightest I have ever seen. You are my definition of humanity at its best."

"I'm nothing special, Cas. You're the only angel standing here."

"Almost angel."

"Close enough." Dean grinned, and raised a lecherous brow, trying to defuse the serious moment. "Wanna put a few more feathers on those wings, baby?"

"Baby?" Castiel said indignantly.

Dean laughed. "Oh wise and wonderful Castiel, once and future Angel of the Lord, would you care to join me for a night on the town, hopefully followed by a little one-on-one wing resurrection? If you can fit it in your busy schedule, that is."

"My evening is free." Castiel smiled. "Are you asking me on a date?"

"I am," Dean said, surprising himself with his easy capitulation to the word 'date'.

"Then I accept. On one condition."

"And that is?"

"That I pay. I do not wish the evening to be tainted by phoney credit cards or money obtained by dubious means. Father Desmond helped me open a bank account and I deposited most of my first pay cheque. I have twenty dollars in cash. Is that enough for a night on the town? If not, I can employ my client card and password if we stop by an ATM."

"Cas, you're killing me here. What are you trying to do? Make an honest man of me?"

"That is my intent." Castiel smiled again and tapped a finger against his clerical collar. "Call it a hazard of the job."

* * *

With Castiel's limited finances in mind, Dean took advantage of a McDonald's drive-through and ordered a Big Mac Meal and a super-sized Coke for himself and a Happy Meal with a large strawberry milkshake for Castiel. Castiel proudly handed over his twenty dollar bill and expressed great delight in the variety of money he received in exchange. While he counted and recounted the coins, trying to figure out which ones went together to add up to a dollar, Dean drove to a deserted little park and laid their humble feast out on a picnic table. He almost fell off the bench laughing when Castiel drew a plastic bag from the Happy Meal and studied the little toy it contained with all the seriousness of an archaeologist discovering an important artifact.

"Princess Celestia," Castiel read. "A winged unicorn." He ripped the bag open and tipped the toy out in his hand. "She's very pink," he said, "but not as pink as the box Barbie comes in. I like her blue hair."

Dean snorted and sputtered until Coke dribbled out of his nose.

Castiel ignored him to explore the other wonders inside the colourful _My Little Pony_ box. "A burger and fries... It is not so very different from your meal, Dean. Just smaller."

"Does it make you happy, Cas?"

"Not especially." Castiel consumed his burger in three swift bites. "But you do," he continued matter of factly, helping himself to Dean's Big Mac while the hunter was too busy gaping at him to complain.

"What else do people do on a date?" Castiel asked, attacking his milkshake with his usual gusto.

"Uh... They see a movie, or go dancing. They take walks in the moonlight, or on a beach."

"I do not understand most movies, and I do not know how to dance. There is no moon tonight, and we are many miles from the sea."

"We could go bowling, or take in a concert, or play pool, or hit a bar."

Castiel frowned.

"Or," Dean said softly, setting down his Coke and sliding over to remove the milkshake from Castiel's hand. "We could do this..."

Castiel's lips were sweet and sticky and utterly perfect in every way. Dean took his time deepening the kiss, savouring each taste, each slick touch of tongue on tongue, every helpless little gasp and moan and whimper that Castiel made.

"I don't think I can wait another day," Castiel whispered.

Dean glanced around the picnic area. We're too exposed here," he said. "I could drive us somewhere more private..."

"No." Castiel nodded to the dark promise of the trees. "There," he suggested. "No one will see."

"Okay... okay... Just let me think. I want – We need – "

"Now, Dean."

"Just a minute." Dean sprinted over to the Impala and rummaged in the trunk. He returned in a few seconds, panting slightly, a crumpled tan ball of cloth clenched in his hands.

"Put this on," he said breathlessly.

"My coat? Dean – "

"Humour me, Cas. Please don't argue... just humour me."

Castiel slipped on the dirty, wrinkled trench coat and stared at Dean expectantly, his head tilted to one side in that oh-so-familiar way.

It wasn't perfect. There was no suit, no tie... but it was Cas. His Cas. And that was more than enough for Dean. Dean grabbed hold of both lapels and pulled, tumbling his 'angel' into his arms and smothering his surprised gasp with a kiss that curled Castiel's toes and made his knees feel wobbly.

"Come with me," Dean ordered, taking Castiel's hand and leading them both deep into the shadows of the woods. When he felt they were far enough away from the prospect of any prying eyes, Dean turned and wrapped himself around Castiel, his hands delving beneath fabric to meet at the ex-angel's back, almost crawling into the trench coat with him in his desperate bid to get closer, faster... now-now-now-now-_now!_

Dean?" Castiel said uncertainly "D-Dean?"

Instantly, Dean paused in his violation of the smooth flesh of Castiel's throat.

"Do you want me to stop, Cas?" Dean said, gasping for breath and obviously battling to regain some semblance of self-control. "Say the word and I will. I promise I won't do anything that you don't want me to do."

"I don't want you to stop. It's just..."

"Too fast?" Dean completed the sentence. "Too fast. Too much."

Castiel ducked his head in shy acknowledgement.

"Then we'll take it slower. Baby steps, Cas. Sit down."

Castiel obediently lowered himself to the ground.

"Let's start with what you know," Dean whispered, kneeling down to face him.

He leaned forward, and Castiel's lips met his halfway across the narrow space between them. This kiss was slow and tender, a careful glide of lips and tongues. After several minutes, Castiel's hands came up to frame Dean's face, changing its angle slightly, and both men groaned, united in their desire to intensify the kiss. Dean's hands fluttered to Castiel's shoulders, pushing the trench coat down his arms and over his hands until it formed a puddle of cloth behind him. Gently, Dean eased the ex-angel down until he rested upon the improvised blanket, and then the hunter crawled up Castiel's body until he was covering him from above as the coat sheltered him from below.

"Okay, Cas?" he murmured.

A low, long moan was his reply.

"Okay," Dean panted. "I'm going to start moving now, just a little rocking motion back and forth. Rub back against me. It will feel good, I promise."

It felt better than good. Castiel's eyes rolled back in his head and he bit hard on his lower lip to contain the scream he felt building in his throat.

"Okay?" Dean repeated. "Is this okay?"

"You talk too much," Castiel growled, and flipped them over until Dean was cradled in the trench coat and Castiel was astride him, rutting against him clumsily but with great enthusiasm and growing assurance.

"It's better... with fewer clothes," Dean managed between frantic kisses, and Castiel's hands shot to Dean's shirt hem, pulling the T-shirt up and off in one smooth motion as Dean arched beneath him. Castiel's shirt and Roman collar were next to go. And then, while Dean's hands were ineffectively fumbling with his belt buckle, Castiel stood up long enough to deal with his own boots and belt and jeans. Naked, he crouched back down to assist Dean. They got as far as pulling Dean's remaining clothes down to his ankles, but when the stubborn garments got caught up on his boots, neither man had the patience to complete the task. Castiel simply fell back into Dean's waiting arms, and once again they began to rock and slide their bodies together.

It was definitely better with fewer clothes. Better still with none at all.

Bright spots of light danced before Castiel's eyes and he whimpered helplessly.

"Breathe," Dean whispered in his ear. "Take a deep breath... and just let go."

"I can't... I can't..."

"You can," Dean said, and kissed him.

And, quite suddenly, Castiel discovered that he could...

Castiel's mouth tore away from Dean's to release a howl that split the quiet of the night. Breath sobbing in his throat, eyes wide with wonder, his mouth smashed back down to Dean's and he kissed the hunter with such furious abandon that it pushed Dean over the edge as well.

Bodies sated and limbs deliciously entwined, their kisses gentled to the merest brush of lips on lips.

Castiel's head dropped to rest upon Dean's chest, and he turned to nuzzle against his mark. Dean's heart tripped beneath his ear, echoing the mad patter of his own. And Castiel smiled, content to stay like this forever... or at least until it was time to do it all over again.

* * *

The drive back to Father Desmond's house passed in comfortable silence, with many a smiling, sidelong glance cast at one another. The journey was over before either man was ready for it to end. Dean smoothly pulled the Impala up to the curb and killed the engine. Without saying a word, he reached over and picked up Castiel's hand, drawing it back towards his lips and placing a kiss in the exact centre of the palm.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," he said, the old cliché suddenly sounding as fresh and new to his ears as it undoubtedly was to Castiel's.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wait," Castiel said earnestly. "I'm sure I would have enjoyed whatever plans you had in mind for my seduction."

"Oh, my poor innocent angel..." Dean leaned across the seat to steal a kiss. "I still have plans for you. Many, many plans. We haven't even started on the list of things I want to do to you – not to mention all the things I want you to do to me."

"You mean... there's more?" Castiel's eyes widened.

"Much, much more," Dean laughed. "But I promised you baby steps... and I'm a man of my word."

"Baby steps for a baby in a trench coat?" Castiel said somewhat tartly.

Dean grimaced. "I'm sorry I called you that. I know it hurt your feelings. You know how I lash out when I get frustrated..."

"I know."

"And you know I've always kinda liked your ratty old coat. The way it swishes when you walk. The way it smells like ozone and freshly cut grass and cinnamon – and everything good."

"I am beginning to think you have a trench coat fetish."

"Maybe I do," Dean chuckled. "When you were off fighting your war, sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of someone walking around a corner, wearing a coat like yours... but it was never you. Or they vanished before I could be sure."

"Sometimes it was me, Dean. I couldn't stay away. I had to see you, if only for a few moments. It kept me going..." He hung his head, deeply ashamed. "Regrettably, I was going in the wrong direction."

"But you're back on the right track now," Dean soothed, running his hand up and down Castiel's thigh.

"I am. Thanks to you. You brought me back from something I was not meant to survive. Those souls were killing me... consuming me. There was very little left of 'Castiel' at the end."

"Cas... Why did you ask us to bow down and love you? That was weirdly phrased, even for you. Most deities would have said worship. Bow down and _worship_ me."

"I'd rather not say," Castiel said, turning his face away from Dean to look out the Impala's side window. But the light was such that his reflection in the glass was as clear as if he stood in front of a mirror. His lips were trembling, and a single tear tracked from one eye.

"Okay," Dean said quietly, Turning his head, he too looked out of his window, giving Castiel the time he needed to reach a hand up and scrub it across his face.

"Someday I'll tell you," Castiel whispered. "Someday, when you're ready to hear it. When you're ready to believe me."

"Okay," Dean repeated.

"I should go," Castiel said reluctantly. "Father Desmond will expect me to attend Mass, and then – "

"And then you're going to charm the panties off of some old ladies."

"They are not all old."

"Stay away from the young ones, Cas. They're trouble."

"You already provide me with more trouble than I need," Castiel said, leaning over to press his lips to Dean's. And, for a while, the comfortable silence returned, broken only by a few soft sighs and the faint whisper of stubbled skin on stubbled skin.

"Is there something in your pocket, Dean?" Castiel murmured long minutes later. And, much to his astonishment, Dean whooped with uncontrollable laughter.

"Yeah, Cas," he hiccupped. "Yeah, there actually is. I bought you a present." He reached in his pocket and withdrew the forgotten cell phone.

"I did not get you anything," Castiel said, dismayed.

"I think pulling me out of Hell was the ultimate gift," Dean replied. "It's just a phone, Cas. It's for me as much as it is for you. Call me when you're ready to come home."

"Home..." Castiel breathed reverently. "I like the sound of that."


	11. The Fulfilling of the Law

It was well after 2:00 am when Dean returned to Bobby's and, automatically avoiding the creaking boards on the porch stairs, quietly crept inside the house. As quickly as he could, he locked the door behind him and reset the wards his entrance had disturbed. A final line of salt poured across the sill, and he was done. Yawning widely, too familiar with the room's layout to bother with a light, he turned and headed for the hall, rearing back at the last moment as he almost bowled into a dark shape just entering the kitchen.

"Jesus!" Dean gasped. "Sam, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Why the hell aren't you in bed?"

"I might ask you the same thing," Sam snapped. "But I'm not sure I want to know the answer. I'm hungry, Dean. I was going to grab something from the fridge, if that's okay with you."

Sam jerked the refrigerator door open, and in the dim glow of its cold light the two brothers stood glaring at one another, matching bitch faces in place. Fortunately, Dean was in too good a mood to hold onto his anger.

"Hand me a beer," he said mildly. "I'll keep you company."

Sam's ire deflated in turn. "There's some pizza left," he offered.

"Thanks." Dean accepted a generous slice and seated himself at the table, alternating between large bites of the pizza and deep swallows of pale lager.

Sam pulled out a chair to join him and, for a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence as they consumed their snack, only the ticking of a clock disturbing the quiet of the night.

"How'd the research go?" Dean said.

"We hit a dead end. Bobby's got feelers out, touching base with other hunters to see if they've caught scent of anything. No luck so far."

"That sucks." Dean picked at the label on his beer bottle and tried to think of a kick ass plan to thwart Crowley. Deeply lost in thought, he raised the bottle to his mouth, the cool slide of the glass suddenly reminding him of cold lips flavoured with the taste of strawberry, and how they warmed and parted so invitingly beneath his own...

"How's Cas?" Sam inquired casually.

Dean only just managed not to choke on his beer. "Good," he said finally. "Really good. You wouldn't believe it, Sam. Our socially inept angel is now an esteemed member of the community. He's becoming a whole new person."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Dean frowned. "Happy for him?" he said, puzzled by the question. "How else would I feel?"

"I just thought you might miss the old Cas," Sam replied.

"He's still there," Dean said softly. "Some things haven't changed – and some things have changed for the better. I always said he needed to lose the stick up his ass. Now that he has..." He trailed into silence and drained his remaining beer in a single long gulp.

"Now that he has?" Sam prompted.

In the darkness, it was easy to pretend he wasn't having a chick flick moment with his brother. Discussing his _feelings_, for fuck's sake.

_When did I become such a girl?_ Dean wondered.

"Dean?"

"We can't keep our hands off each other," Dean whispered. "It's like... hell, Sam, I don't know what it's like. I've never felt this way before."

"Dopamine, norepinephrine, endorphins," Sam said sagely. "And, if I'm not wrong, you can throw a little oxytocin into the mix."

"Huh?"

"You know what an adrenaline rush feels like?"

Dean nodded. "Racing heart, flushed skin, sweaty palms. Fight or flight."

"It's a chemical reaction," Sam said. "Love is like that too."

"Whoa! Love? Who said anything about love?"

"Lust, then," Sam conceded. "Dopamine is thought to be the 'pleasure chemical,' producing a feeling of bliss. Norepinephrine is similar to adrenaline and produces the racing heart and excitement. Together, they form a potent emotional cocktail. You know, that crazy 'I can't think of anything but you' feeling? The attraction stage. Endorphins are the flip side of the coin. They create a general sense of well-being, the 'it makes me happy just to be with you' feeling."

"And oxy-whatsis?"

"Oxytocin. Commonly known as 'the love hormone'. When it's released during orgasm, it begins to create an emotional bond. The more often you have sex with the same person, the stronger the bond with them will become – which could prove interesting, given you and Cas already have that whole profound bond thing going."

"I am not having this conversation," Dean moaned.

"You didn't deny you were having sex," Sam observed.

"Right about now, Samantha, I'm denying I have a brother."

"So..." Sam said carefully, "does that mean you and Cas haven't had The Talk yet?"

"_The Talk?_ So help me, Sam, if you mean 'the birds and the bees' I'm gonna have to beat the crap out of you."

"That's not the talk I meant."

"Fuck! The 'where do you see this relationship going' talk? Hell, no! We're guys! We don't do shit like that. Why do you have to slap a definition on everything? It just is what it is."

"Cas is in love with you, Dean," Sam stated quietly. "He's not out to have a little bit of fun. He wants more than that – he deserves more. You both do."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean replied, a touch of desperation in his voice. "We're friends. I'd die for him – he has died for me. So, yeah, I guess you could say we love each other. But it's like-love, you know? Not... not..."

"Love-love?" Sam snickered.

"Exactly!" Dean exclaimed. "Not love-love. There's no denying we're... infatuated... and... making a transition from 'just friends' to 'friends with benefits'... But that's it. That's all."

"Are you sure about that, Dean? I've seen the way he looks at you – the way you look at him. Hell, you kissed the man in front of me! You held his hand! If that's not proof that you're falling in l– "

"This conversation is over," Dean said firmly. "I'm going to bed."

Sam sat alone in the dark kitchen, sipping the last of his beer as he listened to his brother clomp up the stairs. _Friends with benefits,_ he snorted. _Wake up and pull your head out of your ass, Dean._

* * *

"Sonofabitch!" Dean swore, twisting and turning in hatefully tangled bedclothes. He had bragged too soon to Castiel about how well he always slept after having sex. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind – and it was all Sam's fault. Why the hell did he have to go spouting off about love? Did he think Dean was deaf, blind and dumb as a post? It was glaringly obvious even to the master of denial that Castiel was in love with him. He could see that love in every glance the ex-angel cast his way, he felt love in his every touch, his every kiss...

Dean had never known such unconditional love. It was both awesome... and terrifying.

More terrifying still was the fact that Dean returned that love with every fibre of his being. No matter what gibberish he'd babbled to mislead Sam, the truth lived in his heart. Castiel wasn't a fuck buddy. He was the farthest thing from it that Dean could imagine. He was the love of a lifetime. He was the one Dean had been searching for his whole life. He was helplessly, hopelessly head over heels for the guy.

And that was a secret he wasn't ready to share with anyone. Not Sam. Not even Castiel – especially not Castiel! Hell, he could barely admit it to himself. He wasn't about to get Castiel's hopes up when he didn't know himself if he could handle these overwhelming feelings.

No, all he could do was hide the truth to the best of his ability and give Castiel all of himself that he could give. No promises of forever. Happily ever afters didn't figure much in a hunter's future anyway, especially if that hunter was Dean. But, maybe, if they took it one day at a time, he and Castiel could build a life together. At the very least, he would treasure each day they had. Starting tomorrow – or, rather, starting later today. It was well into Sunday morning. Dawn was but an hour or two away. Soon Castiel would be coming home...

Soon wasn't soon enough.

Dean reached over to the nightstand and picked up his cell phone. Flipping though the entries until the cursor highlighted 'Cas', Dean stared at the little glowing screen. One touch of his finger and he could hear Castiel's voice, rough with sleep, turn deeper still with pleasure as he spoke Dean's name.

Dean took a deep breath, and pressed the call button.

* * *

"Hello?"

Castiel's voice was every bit as drowsy and gravelly as Dean had anticipated it would be.

"It's me," he said, his own voice rasping in his throat.

"Dean... Are you all right? You sound... perturbed."

"I'm fine, Cas. Just fine. I just realized..." Dean trailed into silence.

An answering silence came from the phone.

"I just... Oh hell, Cas... Never mind, I'm being stupid. Go back to sleep. I'll see you tonight."

"What are you wearing, Dean?"

Dean gave a sharp bark of laughter and clutched his cell phone a little tighter to his ear. "You did not just ask me that," he chuckled.

"Would you prefer to ask me?" Castiel said. "I was looking though a magazine at the checkout counter the other day. There was an article regarding phone sex, but it was unclear who was supposed to conduct the interrogation. Perhaps, since you called me..."

"What are you wearing, Cas?" Dean said, deciding to play along. This should be entertaining. Role playing was not Castiel's strong suit. At least the trench coat was safely back in the Impala's trunk, so he wouldn't be subjected to a teasing recital of its wonders.

"Nothing," Castiel replied.

Dean swallowed. "Nothing?" he repeated disbelievingly.

"Nothing," Castiel confirmed. "I am completely nude."

"Uh..."

"And aroused. I was dreaming of you when you called."

"You were?" Dean squeaked.

"I wish you were lying next to me now so I could show you what that dream entailed."

"Uh, Cas..."

"Remove your clothes, Dean."

Castiel listened as the sound of rustling fabric filtered though the receiver, picturing Dean's T-shirt skimming up across his chest and over his head, his boxer shorts being kicked off, both garments tossed carelessly to the floor. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, patiently waiting until Dean's rapid breathing indicated he had retrieved his temporarily discarded phone.

"Lie down. Place your right hand on my mark," he ordered.

"Cas..."

"Stroke yourself with the other hand. Pretend that it is me."

Dean obeyed. The angle was a bit awkward with his right arm snugly crossed over his chest, but his fingers felt so cool and soothing against the sudden fire sweeping through Castiel's brand, that he soon forgot any discomfort as an intense wave of pleasure and longing swept through his body.

"Cas... Are you touching yourself, too?" Dean moaned, his phone precariously pinned between his shoulder and ear.

"Yes," Castiel growled. "But it is your hand that I see on my flesh... your touch that I crave..."

"Oh, God," Dean whimpered, and came.

For a few minutes, as he lay there breathing raggedly, awash in a pleasant afterglow, Dean was oblivious to the pulsing sensation in his arm, the gentle light that emanated from his left shoulder as if a crooked halo was bobbing its way across his skin. But as he heard broken gasps and moans coming from the phone which now rested on the pillow beside his head, panic sank in.

"Cas?" he cried, grabbing up the phone. "Cas!" Visions of tearing across town in his birthday suit and bursting into Father Desmond's house to rescue Castiel from a mojo attack gone awry danced through his mind. He was on his feet, tripping over the trailing bed sheets and staggering for the door, before he registered Castiel's voice calling his name.

"Dean? It's all right, Dean," Castiel panted. "Distance mitigated the effect... but it was still... a most exhilarating experience."

Dean leaned his head against the bedroom wall and sighed. "Are you saying that you came, Cas?"

"Yes," Castiel murmured, his breath still hitching in his chest.

"Well... Okay, then. Good work, there. You're a natural at this phone sex stuff."

"I prefer the real thing," Castiel grumbled. "I wish to hold you now."

"Dude, dudes don't cuddle."

"This dude does," Castiel said firmly.

"Okay," Dean whispered. "Okay, Cas. No problem."

Returning to his bed, he lay back down without bothering to pull up the covers. "Imagine you're lying on your side and I have my arms around you," he said, drawing a pillow towards him and hugging it tight. "Pretend I'm pressed up against your back, our bodies fitting together perfectly. My hand is stroking your chest, my head rests between your shoulder blades. I'm listening to your heart, tasting your skin, trailing kisses up and down your spine..."

He fell asleep with Castiel's gradually slowing, contented breaths gently sounding in his ear.

* * *

Dean was not at all surprised to find his cell phone battery completely drained in the morning. Plugging it in to charge it, so he would be sure not to miss Castiel's call when he was ready to be picked up, he quickly showered and dressed, claiming the new jade-coloured T-shirt Castiel had taken such a fancy to as his for the day. Clattering down the stairs with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, he was whistling as he entered the kitchen. It wasn't until he saw Sam's mouth twitch with suppressed laughter that Dean became aware of the song he'd chosen: Led Zeppelin's _All My Love_.

_Oh, shit,_ Dean thought. Followed almost immediately by: _Oh, fuck, why not?_

"All of my love, all of my love, all of my love to you now," he bellowed as he poured his coffee. He was still humming under his breath as he munched on the toast Sam thrust at him in the vain hope of shutting him up.

* * *

Castiel moved through his day in a daze, a smile on his face and joy thrumming so loudly through his veins that he was sure everyone must hear the song his heart was singing.

_My beloved is mine, and I am his... His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend... I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me... I would kiss thee... Make haste, my beloved..._

"Dean..." Castiel sighed, his hand slipping to his pocket, feeling the cell phone safely nestled there, the temptation to call Dean astonishing in its intensity. But the cell's battery was low – and Castiel blushed recalling the cause of that. He really should conserve whatever power remained for a more pressing need. Not that the sweet and heavy urgency he felt now wasn't an emergency of sorts, but...

Acutely aware of his sudden state of arousal, Castiel stepped into a vending booth and pretended to be hard at work dismantling its frame. And if anyone noticed his flushed face and shortness of breath, well, they could just put it down to exertion. "Poor Father Novak," the old dears would murmur. "He works so hard. It must be time for him to have another cup of tea."

Much, much later, after what felt uncomfortably like ten pots of tea, Castiel made his escape to the homeless shelter and donned an apron as he slid behind the counter.

An endless parade of faces shuffled past, some simply down on their luck, many drunk or hung over, others high or suffering from acute withdrawal symptoms, all aged beyond their years and shrunken in upon themselves with despair.

_That could be me,_ Castiel thought. _But for the Mercy of God and Dean's generosity, I could be out there wandering the streets, lost and afraid, hurt and alone..._

Castiel tipped a little extra food on each plate that chanced his way. And when the seemingly endless line finally ended and his fellow volunteers began clean-up duty, instead of joining them in the sanctuary of the kitchen and hastening through his chores so that he might slip out early, Castiel removed his apron and left his post to walk amongst the makeshift tables crowded into every corner of the room. A swell of love and empathy blossomed in Castiel's heart as he methodically worked his way though the crowd, laying a hand upon a shoulder here, offering a kind word there. Surreptitiously, he called upon his Grace to heal whatever ailments or injuries were within his power to heal, before moving on to the next poor soul in need, and then the next, and the next... until not a man, woman or child in the room remained untouched by the angel in their midst.

* * *

The hour was much later than Dean had anticipated it would be when his phone rang and Castiel's number finally appeared. "Hey," he said, "I thought you'd stood me up."

"Dean..." Castiel breathed, just the name and nothing more, but Dean felt a wave of such agonized longing sweep though him, that he knew he somehow had to be picking up on Castiel's emotions.

"Are you okay, Cas?"

"I want to come home," Castiel said. "I want... I need to be with you. Now. Please."

"Where are you?"

"I am back at Father Desmond's."

"Fifteen minutes, Cas. I'm on my way."

Dean bolted from the house without a word to Bobby or Sam, leaving them to stare at each other, brows raised and, in Sam's case, an amused smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. Dean managed to shave at least five minutes off his ETA, went pounding up the walkway, and leaned on the doorbell until a low murmur of voices and footsteps acknowledged his arrival.

Somehow, he and Castiel managed to get through the pleasantries of saying goodbye to Father Desmond, the 'thanks yous' and 'you're welcomes', the 'glad to helps' and 'any times' tripping off their tongues as if their brains were set on autopilot. One last hug from the priest, a final promise to keep in touch, and they were free. Dean picked up Castiel's duffle bag and ushered him down the walk, a warm hand discreetly planted at the centre of his back. As Castiel climbed inside the Impala, Dean sprinted around to the other side and fumbled the key into the ignition.

He had scarcely driven a block when Castiel growled, "Find a place to park, or I'm not responsible for what happens to your car."

Dean swallowed and stepped on the gas. Cutting through a parking lot he spun left onto South Seminary Road, followed by a quick right turn into a small, dirt track giving access to a golf course. Once the Impala was safely concealed by trees, he cut the engine and turned to face Castiel.

But the ex-angel was already crawling over the bench seat into the back, rather than bothering to open the car door and go around. Dean followed, trying to be considerate of where he placed his knees and elbows, but Castiel impatiently reached up and grabbed his arm, tumbling them together with a bone jarring thud. Before Dean could draw breath to complain, his mouth fell prey to Castiel's frantic kiss. With no real grounds for protest anyway, Dean surrendered, returning the kiss with such fervour that Castiel's head dropped limply back to the upholstery as he uttered a wrecked moan. Dean ruthlessly attacked the long, bare throat so pleasingly revealed by this move...

As large as the Impala was compared to more modern cars, it wasn't really made for two grown men to be rolling around in the backseat. But Castiel and Dean managed somehow. Eager hands shed clothes, stealing touches anywhere and everywhere they could reach. Avid mouths parted only under the demand of screaming lungs, or as was necessary for fabric to slide between them to reveal another tantalizing glimpse of naked flesh.

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" Dean groaned, half out of his mind with pleasure.

An unearthly, impassioned wail tore from Castiel's lips.

"Oh, God!" Dean repeated helplessly, as Castiel's right hand slapped against his brand with enough force to bruise.

And as the car exploded with light, so too did Dean explode, breath sobbing in his throat and Castiel's murmured litany of "Dean, Dean, Dean..." caressing his ears.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?" he whispered eventually, abandoning Castiel's lips to nuzzle against his ear. "Not that I'm complaining..."

"I had an epiphany today, Dean. Do you know not an angel in Heaven has ever had what I have now? Our Father's permission to walk amongst His greatest creation and touch upon individual lives. Not just to observe and guard and love with a love that is as cold and distant as the farthest star. Not to shape the world into my own little playground as Gabriel and Balthazar did. But to actually understand mankind's pain and suffering, to share their joys and fears, to hope their hopes, dream their dreams... To _feel_, Dean. To really feel all that it means to be alive... My Father did not punish me, He granted me the greatest reward it was within His power to give. He made me human. He made _this_ possible..."

Castiel wrapped Dean in his arms and kissed him with all the love and passion coursing though his human veins. And then he kissed him some more, simply because he could.

Dean closed his eyes and matched him kiss for kiss.


	12. Lead Us Not Into Temptation

Bobby had already retired for the night by the time Dean and Castiel returned to the salvage yard, but Sam was still up, hunched over his laptop, deeply engrossed in his research.

"Hey," he said, blinking owlishly at his brother and the ex-angel, as if surprised to find them suddenly materialized in front of him. "What do you think of this?"

"What is it?" Dean squinted at the squiggles on the screen.

"It is an eleventh century German sigil," Castiel replied, casually leaning against Dean's shoulder to better see the image. "This," he traced a line with his finger, "is the symbol for water. And this..." his finger shifted to another line, "means Heaven."

"So... water from Heaven. Rain?" Dean hazarded a guess.

"No," Sam shook his head. "That's not quite it. Not rain..."

"Tears," Castiel said.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sam flicked back through his browser history. "I think I saw something about tears. Here!" He called up the window with a flourish. "Tränen. Tears."

Castiel silently studied the screen. "This is a very complicated spell," he said. "It will take me some time to properly analyze it but, at a glance, it appears to be just what we seek: a means to bind a powerful demon."

Sam yawned, precipitating a cycle of yawning amongst all three men.

"I should get started," Castiel persevered when he regained control of his traitorous jaw. "If I may borrow your computer, Sam..."

"Tomorrow will be soon enough for that," Dean said. "A fancy spell won't do us any good if you nod off in the middle of it, or mistranslate a crucial word because your concentration's shot."

"Dean's right," Sam yawned again. "I'll print this off and have it waiting for you in the morning. Until then, I'll clear out of here so you can get some sleep." Tucking the laptop under his arm, he turned towards the stairs, only to turn back and bestow a warm smile upon Castiel. "It's good to have you with us again, Cas," he said shyly, before bounding up the stairs and disappearing into his bedroom.

"It is good," Dean confirmed, as he heard the door click shut behind Sam. Swiftly crossing the room, he removed a blanket from Castiel's hand as the ex-angel prepared to spread it out on the sofa. The hunter returned it, still folded, to the arm of a chair. "You won't be needing that," he whispered.

"Dean?"

"It's officially Halloween. I'm not letting you out of my sight until Crowley's out of the picture."

"But... the wards... You agreed we would be safe here."

"We are safe," Dean murmured, reaching out to pull Castiel into his arms. "But there's no reason we can't be comfortable too. Come to bed, Cas. Don't make me share that lumpy sofa."

"It would be cozy." Castiel smiled, tilting his head to give Dean's mouth better access to a spot just below his left ear that drove him crazy every time. "You couldn't hide from me on the far side of the mattress."

"I'll cuddle you if you come to bed."

"That, Dean Winchester, is something I must see. Do you even know how to cuddle?"

"I'm willing to give it a try." Dean grinned. "It's not like you'll know the difference if I get it wrong."

"I don't know about that. You were very specific in your description last night. I have high expectations."

"Then we'll have to recreate the moment exactly."

Hand in hand, laughing softly and pausing often to exchange increasingly heated kisses, they climbed the stairs.

* * *

Sam towelled his hair dry and ran his fingers through the tangled mop that resulted. A quick glance in the fogged-over mirror confirmed he was past due for a haircut. Dean usually started nagging him when it fell so far over his eyes it made aiming a gun problematic. In fact, if his warning grumbles were ignored, he had been known to go so far as to take a knife and hack off chunks of hair while Sam was sleeping. But Dean had other things on his mind these days. Sam grinned. Maybe he should tie his shaggy locks back in a ponytail and see if that garnered any notice from his moonstruck brother.

But then, upon further reflection, visions of waking up with his head shaved bald wiped the grin from Sam's face. Maybe he'd better do himself a favour and trim his hair himself. Bobby had scissors in here somewhere...

After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching of the bathroom's untidy drawers and cupboards, Sam was about to concede defeat when he remembered Dean had borrowed the scissors a week ago. No doubt they were still where he had tossed them: on top of his bedroom dresser, along with the needle and thread he had also abandoned when he'd finished mending a rip in his shirt.

Sam sighed and poked his head out into the hall. The house was quiet and still. Dean's door was closed, but not quite fully latched. He could very likely steal inside and retrieve the scissors without being discovered. It was worth a try, anyway. He'd never live it down if he walked smack into Crowley because he literally couldn't see where he was going.

Knotting a towel around his waist, Sam crept across the hall, eased open the bedroom door and silently stepped inside. That was his first mistake. He should have waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. Cat-like reflexes saved him from a nasty spill, but his big toe throbbed painfully from its unexpected impact with – Sam glanced down to see what had tripped him. A shoe. And just beyond that shoe, lay another. And a third beyond that, followed by an impressive trail of clothing, with a fourth shoe forming an exclamation mark on the floor at the foot of the bed.

_Whoa!_ Sam's brain cried. _Last time I checked, Dean only had two feet._

And that is when he realized his second mistake: Dean was not alone in the room.

_Cas..._

Well, okay then. It's not like this was the first time he'd caught them sleeping together. No problem. He could deal with a little semi-innocent bed sharing and inadvertent snuggling. It was actually kinda sweet – not that he'd ever admit that out loud!

Which brought Sam to mistake number three: he looked at the bed. And looked again. Seemingly miles and miles of naked flesh met his astonished stare. So entangled were the two sleeping lovers, that he wasn't quite sure which limb belonged to which man, nor did he linger long enough to try and figure it out. With a final disbelieving glance at Dean's lips nuzzled against Castiel's throat, Castiel's hand possessively cupping Dean's bare ass, Sam shot out of the room so fast he almost lost his towel.

"Uh..." he said, less than eloquently, as he regained the safety of his own bedroom. "Um... yeah. I think Dean is well on his way to figuring out what to do about his feelings."

* * *

Dean was not surprised to awaken with a boner. Hey, he was a guy. Morning wood was a fact of life. Especially when you were pressed up tight against a warm body that seemed intent on climbing inside your skin and hugging you from the inside out. So yeah, instant boner. No news flash there.

What he hadn't expected was the lack of desire to do anything about it. God help him, he was happy just to hold the drop dead gorgeous angel in his arms and watch him sleep. Listening to Castiel's soft breaths, feeling gentle puffs of air stir against his breast, Dean felt a wave of contentment sweep through him unlike anything he had ever known.

_Huh,_ he thought, totally bemused. _So there's more to love than sex? Who would have guessed it?_ His gaze caressed Castiel's peaceful face, touching upon the thick curl of lashes sweeping his cheeks, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, the stubborn little wisps of hair that insisted upon tumbling across his forehead, the lips...

_Oh fuck, his lips are just made for kissing!_

"You're staring," a deep voice rumbled, the vibrations echoing in Dean's own chest.

"That's rich, coming from you," Dean replied with a grin, giving in to temptation and ravishing the lips he'd been admiring for the past several minutes. Castiel's eyes slitted open and immediately squeezed shut again as he lost himself in the kiss.

"Dean..." he whispered, and gave a long and luxurious flex of his spine that melded him even closer to the hunter.

And oh, hey, no doubt about it. Castiel was obviously a guy too. One who apparently hadn't gotten the memo yet about sex not always being necessary. In fact, if Dean was not mistaken, Castiel was very actively encouraging it. A siren call that Dean was finding more and more impossible to resist. Actually, he couldn't quite recall why the thought of resistance had even crossed his mind in the first place...

Well, since they were already naked and in bed... why not? There might be more to love than sex, but sex was pretty awesome too.

"Oh, God," Dean whimpered as Castiel rubbed sensuously against him.

Castiel paused only long enough to lock his hand in place on Dean's shoulder as his mouth sought out Dean's, the kiss muffling both of their cries as they gently rocked each other to completion, bathed in a radiant, multi-coloured light that outshone the rising sun.

* * *

Sam looked up from his newspaper when Dean and Castiel walked into the kitchen and gave them a nonchalant, cheerful good morning, careful not to make direct eye contact with either man. He wasn't sure he could do so yet without blushing – and explaining the reason for such a blush would prove embarrassing for all concerned. So, instead, he pretended to devote his attention to _The Argus Leader_, all the while closely observing his brother and the ex-angel as they set about preparing their breakfast. It was fascinating to see the choreographed way they moved around and with each other: the way they stood too close, yet never actually touched; the way one reached out for something, only to find the other already handing it to them; the way their glances met and entire conversations were had without a word being spoken. And when they did slip up, and their hands brushed as Dean handed Castiel a cup of coffee sweetened just the way he liked it, Sam found himself holding his breath as the two men froze for the space of a heartbeat. When Dean's little finger trailed down the side of Castiel's hand before Dean turned his attention back to the coffee pot and Castiel drew out a chair and seated himself at the table, it was all Sam could do not to burst into tears as he recalled other mornings, in a kitchen far away, when he and Jess had been the ones to dance this dance.

It took two repetitions of a request for the promised printout before Sam realized that Castiel was speaking to him.

"Uh, yeah," he said, handing several pieces of paper to Castiel. "Here you go, Cas."

Dean set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Castiel and slipped a fork into his waiting hand before settling himself in his own chair. For several minutes, there was no sound except for Dean's contented munching, the occasional clink of Castiel's fork, and the rustle of paper whenever Castiel turned a page.

"Well?" Dean said impatiently, when his eggs and coffee were both long gone. "Is it worth pursuing?"

"I believe it is," Castiel said, giving the pages a final, lingering glance before setting them aside and shovelling into his cooling breakfast. "It is indeed a binding spell. Very powerful, very old and very dangerous. There is no guarantee of success."

"But it's the best chance we have," Dean said. It was not a question. The spell was probably their only chance, and they all knew it.

"Supposing it works," Sam said slowly, "that's only half the problem solved. Where do we keep him bound? I don't think Bobby wants Crowley living in the panic room for the rest of his days."

"That's not going to be a problem," Dean snarled. "I'm going to kill the fucker. I just need the spell to hold him down so he can't wriggle away."

"It's too bad we don't still have the Colt..." Sam said wistfully.

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Castiel growled.

"Do you think you still can?" Dean said hopefully.

"Not as I am. My Grace is, perhaps, within eighty-five to ninety percent of being returned to me. It is hard to be precise with the measurement. It... fluctuates. And no matter how hard I try to hold on to it, it keeps slipping away from me."

"I'm doing the best I can to stuff it back inside you." Dean grinned.

"You are indeed." Castiel smiled fondly.

Sam made gagging noises.

"So where does that leave us?" Dean said, ignoring his brother.

"Vulnerable," Castiel replied. "Perhaps we should rethink this plan. The binding spell alone is not enough to permanently dispose of Crowley."

"We have Ruby's knife. I learned a trick or two in Hell."

"No, Dean," Castiel said softly. "We cannot ask that of you."

"I can do it," Dean insisted.

"Only if you have to," Castiel said firmly. "Perhaps, there is something in this spell that I missed. Something that destroys as well as binds. I must undertake a proper translation. It will take me several hours."

"Do your best, Cas," Dean said. "But whatever you do or don't discover in those pages, we act today. We summon Crowley and keep him under wraps until we find a solution. It's not ideal, but it buys us time. We can't afford to wait until he's ready to come after us. We need to seize the advantage while we still can."

* * *

It did indeed take several hours for Castiel to be satisfied with the translation. As the ex-angel worked, papers and stacks of books spread all over the kitchen table around him, Dean hovered close by, leafing through volumes to find references, supplying endless cups of coffee and once, when he thought no one was looking, providing a welcome massage of the tense muscles in Castiel's neck and lower back.

Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, Sam headed Bobby off from inadvertently intruding on the tender moment, requesting that he help him locate a much needed tome that he was unable to find. Muttering about Sam needing glasses, Bobby turned on his heel and wandered back into the study. A quick glance over Sam's shoulder as he followed after the old hunter revealed Castiel leaning into Dean's touch, his face tilted back to accept a kiss as Dean's head bowed down to meet him.

Finally, it was done.

"Good work, son," Bobby said, shuffling through a stack of neatly handwritten pages. "That's some mighty fine translating."

"The trick was to transcribe Althochdeutsch to Neuhochdeutsch, rather than going straight from eleventh century German to modern English. Then, if you extrapolate 'angel' for 'heaven' it all falls into place," Castiel said modestly, standing and giving his back and shoulders a bone-cracking stretch.

Bobby fanned the papers out on the kitchen table to better display them and all four men gathered around to study the text.

"Wenn... Tränen... aus..." Sam read haltingly from one page, before pushing it over towards Castiel. "You do the honours, Cas."

"Wenn Tränen aus eines Engels Augen fliessen und auf heiligen Boden fallen,  
Und Jungfrauenblut durch eine heilige Klinge geopfert wird,  
Dann muss der Dämon durch diese Worte gebunden sein."

"In English, please?" Dean gave Castiel an impatient nudge in the ribs.

"When tears spill from an angel's eyes and fall on sacred ground,  
And virgin blood is sacrificed by a holy blade,  
Then, with these words, the demon must be bound."

"Well..." Dean grinned. "Bad poetry aside, does that mean what I think it means?"

"It does," Castiel confirmed. "If performed correctly, the spell will be permanently binding. There is a useful corollary as well. We can bind the demon to an object, literally transform him into that object, and hide him away somewhere he will never be found. I have compiled a list of all the things we will need." He edged it out from the bottom of the pile.

"Sacred ground, check," Sam said. "There's an urn or two of that down in the panic room. Holy blade, also check. You don't get much holier than an angel's sword."

"Calamus, bindweed, cayenne, oil of Abramelin..." Dean read. "Hey, I thought the ingredients would be hard to come by?"

"Perhaps they were in the eleventh century," Sam said wryly. "Or still would be if you weren't best buds with an angel."

"Tears of an angel," Bobby said, gleefully rubbing his hands together as he surveyed the various knives and bowls and other paraphernalia he had laid out on the far side of the table.

"You are not torturing Cas to make him cry," Dean warned, his voice a deep growl in his chest.

"Relax, you big baby," Bobby snorted. "I'm not gonna hurt your pwecious widdle angel. The spell doesn't specify the cause of the tears. He can sit and peel onions. That should work. And it'll give us a head start on supper too."

"Onions?" Castiel frowned. "I do not understand."

"I'll explain it to you later," Dean said with a grin.

"As for the final item – blood of a virgin – by Cas's reckoning, we need about a pint. So..." Bobby held up the angel sword and smacked the flat of the blade against his palm. "Ante up, Cas."

Sam's head whipped around to face Castiel, Castiel stared blankly at Dean, and Dean's gaze dropped to the floor.

"What? It's only a lousy pint of..." Bobby's voice faltered into silence as Castiel began to shift his weight from foot to foot like a naughty schoolboy called up before the principal, and Dean suddenly became even more entranced by the kitchen tiles. "You idjits," he breathed. "Tell me that you didn't..."

"We did," Castiel mumbled, a hot flush travelling up his neck.

"Well that's just fucking great."

"It was very pleasant," Castiel agreed seriously. "Dean is – "

"Uh, uh, uh!" Bobby held up a hand. "Stop right there. That's more than I need to know. Ever."

Castiel closed his mouth with an audible snap.

"You couldn't wait?" Bobby turned on Dean. "You couldn't keep it in your pants just a little while longer? Just until that rat-faced bastard Crowley was out of the picture?"

"It was my fault," Castiel said miserably.

"I rather doubt that," Bobby snapped.

Castiel levelled his best 'don't fuck with me I am an Angel of the Lord' glare on Bobby. "It is the truth," he said. "I am the one who could not wait – not another day, not another hour."

"Goddamn it! Where the hell are we going to find a replacement this late in the game?" Bobby groaned. "Showtime's in less than three hours, and we and our virgin have all been screwed."

"Um... well," Dean coughed, and slowly raised his eyes. "Technically, Bobby, that isn't true."

"But you said – " Sam sputtered. "Cas said – "

"We had sex, Dean," Castiel reminded the furiously blushing hunter. "Four times. Five if you count – "

"Uh, yeah. Thanks, Cas. I remember. I was there."

"I know I'm going to regret asking this," Bobby sighed, "but, if you and Feathers are... uh..."

"Doing the horizontal mambo?" Sam suggested.

"Whatever," Bobby conceded wearily. "Then... what the hell are you getting at, Dean?"

"There's... um... beennopenetrationinvolved," Dean mumbled.

"What?" Bobby and Sam chorused.

"He said, there has been no penetration involved," Castiel translated helpfully. "How is that of significance, Dean?"

"It means," Sam said slowly, "that you are still technically – _very_ technically – a virgin. Maybe not according to the Catholic Church's edicts – they would definitely frown upon whatever form of hanky panky you two get up to, fornication being a mortal sin and all – but, for the purpose of this spell..." He shrugged.

"Congratulations, you idjits," Bobby drawled. "You managed to do something right. Of course, you still have plenty of time to fuck up, so let's get that blood – now!"

Castiel obediently held out his arm. "I am still a virgin?" he said wonderingly. "That is... unexpected news."

"Don't worry, Cas," Sam patted him on the shoulder consolingly. "I'm sure it's nothing Dean can't fix."

* * *

The sun set at 17:43. At 17:45 Sam and Bobby finished loading supplies into the Impala.

Bobby slammed the trunk shut and glanced at Sam. "That's the last of it," he said. "You want to go tell Dean and Cas we're ready to roll?"

"Give them a few more minutes," Sam advised. "If this doesn't work..." He trailed into silence. He didn't want to contemplate the shit storm they might be riding into, but it was heavily on his mind. Dean would be thinking the same thing: they might not all come out of this alive. That Castiel was number one on Crowley's hit list was a given, but none of them were exactly in the demon's good books. Crowley would be out for blood, and Dean's inimitable knack of pissing people off would not help calm down matters any.

* * *

Dean looped Castiel's blue tie around his neck and executed a perfect Windsor knot. Stepping back to assess the effect, he frowned. Something was off. His eyes caressed the crisp white shirt, new dark suit, scuffed dress shoes and dirty trench coat.

"I do not understand why it is necessary for me to wear this," Castiel said, a finger fidgeting at his too tight collar.

_Bingo!_ A light bulb went off in Dean's mind. Quickly he undid his careful work, flipped the tie so that it was inside out and tied a sloppy knot that hung a few inches below two unbuttoned buttons.

"Because, this is the way Crowley will expect you to look," Dean replied. "The way he has always seen you. The way he saw you last. God in a rumpled trench coat. It will place him at a psychological disadvantage."

"I see."

Dean's hand gave a teasing tug on Castiel's tie, pulling him forward until the hunter's lips brushed the shell of his ear. "It gives me a psychological advantage too," he admitted. "I have every confidence that my angel will once again save my sorry ass."

"I shall certainly endeavour to do so," Castiel said, peppering the words with kisses before laying claim to what remained of Dean's breath with a long and leisurely exploration of his mouth.

"Okay, then," Dean murmured as their lips reluctantly parted. "We're good to go?"

"Yes, Dean. We are good."

* * *

After much deliberation, it was decided to set up their trap in an abandoned warehouse several miles outside of town limits. Sam and Bobby had suggested returning to Crowley's lab, theorizing familiar surroundings might possibly lure him into a false sense of security. Castiel argued vehemently against this, saying the wily demon would undoubtedly have laid traps of his own, and that neutral ground was therefore safer. Dean, to no one's surprise, sided with Castiel.

And so, as night's cover deepened around them, the four men prepared for the coming battle. Castiel used holy ground to draw a sacred circle on a meticulously swept cement floor: an amalgam of a typical pentagram, the Key of Solomon and sigils both from the German text and of his own original design. Oil of Abramelin and virgin blood glistened at crucial junctures, and at the centre of the trap lay an ancient silver coin, the future vessel of the demon if all went well. While Castiel concentrated on the elaborate artwork, and Bobby set up an altar, Sam and Dean placed and lit an impressive array of candles.

Finally, they were ready. Each man took up one of the cardinal positions: Castiel in the West, behind the altar, Dean in the East; Sam at the North, Bobby to the South.

Dean's eyes met Castiel's across the sacred circle and, for a moment, their gazes locked and held. No one moved, no one breathed... Then Dean nodded slightly, and Castiel drew a deep breath and began to recite the spell.

As the angel's deep, rich voice filled the room, Dean felt the hair rise at the nape of his neck, prickles of primordial dread sending shivers up his spine. Timbers creaked as a sudden wind began to buffet the outside of the building, making the walls tremble and a fine sifting of dust filter down from the high rafters.

_By the pricking of my thumbs..._ Sam's lips soundlessly shaped the words, and the young hunter drew his shoulders back and stood even taller at his post.

A familiar rush of love and pride warmed Dean's chest and he smiled faintly, shaping the expected, equally silent reply: _Something wicked this way comes._

Sam flashed him a grin.

But Dean didn't feel much like smiling anymore. He could feel a malevolent presence like the eerie brush of cobwebs on his skin, could taste a hint of sulphur on the air...

Castiel uncorked a tiny vial and spilled its contents upon a small container of consecrated soil. Picking up the angel sword and a second vial, he let a thin stream of blood run down the holy blade to the dark earth, scarlet mingling with the silver shimmer of his tears.

"In the name of the Holy Father, I summon thee and command thee to appear," he intoned. "Before the Hosts of Heaven and the Spawn of Hell, I name thee, Crowley, and I bind thee with this spell."

Every candle in the room flickered and was extinguished.

In the sparse light that filtered through the warehouse's high-set, filthy windows, a man-shaped figure appeared in the heart of the sacred circle.

Castiel was the first with enough presence of mind to turn a flashlight upon the shadow's face.

"Hello, darling," Crowley drawled. "Did you miss me?"


	13. Deliver Us From Evil

"What's the matter, Castiel? Cat got your tongue?" Crowley taunted, brushing imaginary specks of lint off his expensive suit, fussily adjusting his cufflinks, and generally looking entirely too damned smug for Dean's liking. "I've been expecting your call, partner. We have unfinished business to discuss. Like the little matter of you owing me for all the souls I so kindly procured on your behalf."

"I owe you nothing," Castiel replied, restoring all the candles with a curt motion of his hand. In the flickering light his face was austere and distant, not a trace of humanity could be found.

"You owe me _everything_," Crowley said. "I saved your ass. And _this_ is the thanks I get?" He shot a contemptuous glance around the sacred circle, cast his gaze further afield to encompass the shabby warehouse. "I must admit, I expected better of you. This primitive trap is beneath a god's notice. It reeks of human despair. Shame on you! But that's what you get for slumming with the Winchesters. I should have wiped them from existence when I had the chance. Ah well, it's never too late to remedy that little oversight."

"You are not to harm them." Castiel's eyes were incandescent with fury and he stepped so close to the circle that the toe of his shoe almost brushed against the sacred soil. "You are _never_ to harm them. I thought I made that very clear."

"Yes, yes, I'm quite familiar with your tiresome prime directive. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean. Blah, blah, blah. Smite, smite, smite. Godhood has not refined your tastes overmuch, my dear. But, then, I never thought you would amount to much as a god."

"Like you'd do better," Dean snarled, moving around the circle to stand at Castiel's side, Ruby's knife clenched in his hand and a fierce scowl carved on his face. "King of Hell? King of the dung heap, you mean."

"Your pet is loyal," Crowley smirked. "I'll give you that. But yapping lapdogs are a dime a dozen." His head tilted and he studied Castiel and Dean carefully. "I have never understood what makes this one in particular so special to you. He's so... uncouth."

Bobby and Sam moved to stand beside Castiel and Dean in a silent show of support.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow and casually turned his back on them. Picking up the silver coin, he tossed it from hand to hand before slipping it into his pocket. "Silver," he muttered unhappily. "Don't you know I come out in a rash if I wear anything less than gold?"

"Believe me," Dean snorted, "your comfort rates pretty low on the list of things I give a crap about."

"I'm sure it does. But it's the little touches, that certain _je ne sais quoi_, that distinguishes amateurs from pros, brilliance from mediocrity. And you, mate, are the rankest of the rank. You sully the very air beings like Castiel and myself breathe."

"Don't lump Cas in with the likes of you," Dean said coldly. "He's nothing like you."

"I quite agree." Crowley nodded. "He's worse. He reneged on our agreement. He's a liar, a cheat and a thief. If I were you, I wouldn't trust a word that falls from his gorgeous lips. Tell me, what has he promised you? His eternal gratitude?" Crowley snickered. "Right. As if he is capable of being grateful. He's lying, Dean. Every word is a lie, every promise a convenience. And when you are of no further use to him... what then? He'll cast you aside and move on to the next poor fool who hasn't got the sense to see him for what he is. Just ask Balthazar – oops, I forgot. You can't. Because he's dead. Castiel killed him. Murdered his own beloved brother in cold blood. What chance does a lowlife like you stand? It's only a matter of time before he turns on you too."

"Don't listen to him, Dean," Sam cried, anticipating Dean's response and lunging forward to grip his brother's arms and hold on tight. "He's trying to provoke you into an attack. Don't break the seal!"

"Your use for these two I understand," Crowley mused. "The demon child held great potential once, and could be groomed to rise to power again. The old hunter has both brains and experience – and, on an interesting side note, he's a bloody good kisser too." Crowley's gaze sharpened as he saw Dean's pupils dilate at the reference to kissing and when the hunter's eyes unerringly sought and captured Castiel's, the demon smiled. "Ah," he said softly. "That's the way the wind blows, is it? God and the Righteous Man? Not so righteous, either of you. Which undoubtedly means that one of the key components of this little spell is, shall we say, tainted."

Careful to avoid the other ingredients, Crowley dipped a finger into a thick smear of blood and brought the glistening digit to his tongue. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "You're down a pint or two, Castiel. A little short on purity and fresh out of godliness. In fact, I'd say you're scraping the bottom of the angel spectrum. How insulting, being offered sloppy seconds. What happened to all of my souls?"

"They were not yours," Castiel growled. "No more than they were ever mine. They are back where they belong, in my Father's care."

"How unfortunate," Crowley murmured. "How truly unfortunate... for you."

"He doesn't need your pity," Dean said sharply.

"He doesn't have it." Crowley grinned. "In fact, I am quite delighted with this turn of events. I couldn't have planned it better myself. So, I thank you for your unique brand of hospitality, but I really must be going now."

"And just how do you propose to leave?" Bobby drawled. "Last time I checked, you were standing in a devil's trap. We're calling the shots here."

"Do you really think I'd be so stupid as to hand over all the souls?" Crowley said, his eyes darkening to two inky pits. "I put a few away for a rainy day. One here, one there... it all adds up over time. Oh, nothing to compare with the unholy brew you guzzled down, Castiel. But enough to shield me from this childish attempt at entrapment. Enough to break free and drag you back to Hell with me."

Leaping from the circle with preternatural strength and speed, Crowley knocked Dean flat on his back in passing and grabbed Castiel with his right hand, Sam with his left. "Say goodbye, Dean," he jeered, and vanished as abruptly as he had arrived.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Cas!"

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," Bobby muttered. "I shoulda seen that coming."

"He has them, Bobby. He has them both." Dean choked out the words, his hands knotting in helpless fists, the handle of Ruby's knife digging painfully into the flesh of his right palm. He welcomed the pain. It helped him focus. It held back the hopeless wave of fear that threatened to crush him.

"I know, son. I'm sor – "

"Don't you dare," Dean rasped. "Don't you dare say I'm sorry for your loss. Because they aren't lost. I'm getting them back. If that means I have to go to Hell again, I swear that's what I'll do. He's not taking them away from me."

"Dean..."

"This isn't over," Dean whispered, as much to reassure himself as to convince the old hunter. "There has to be a way..."

* * *

If there was a way, Dean couldn't find it. Hours turned into days... No crossroads demon would strike a bargain – and more than a few laughed in his face. He and Bobby looked at every page of every book on every shelf, they spent hours on the internet, or on the telephone talking to other hunters. Dean couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't afford to. He knew all too well that every minute they delayed was as an hour in Hell, that weeks were months, months years...

"You aren't going to be of any use to anyone if you keep going like this," Bobby muttered. "Take a break."

"No," Dean said stubbornly, refusing to seek solace in the whiskey the old hunter offered, ignoring his repeated hints to grab a shower, pushing himself ruthlessly, incessantly. And still it wasn't enough...

Bobby shrugged and buried his nose in another dusty volume of arcane lore. "You know," he said softly, when a few silent minutes had passed. "It occurs to me to wonder why that angel of yours ain't a full angel yet. I'd say it's pretty damned obvious that you've forgiven him. So what's up with holding back? Why'd you let him go up against Crowley half-cocked like that?"

"What do you think happens when he gets his full powers back?" Dean whispered. "You think he'll want to hang around mud monkeys when he can soar through the clouds? I'm a selfish bastard, Bobby. You should know that by now. I'm supposed to be helping an angel get his wings back... but when I do, I lose him."

"Dean..."

"I don't ever want to let him go."

"Dean, you couldn't shake that boy loose if you tried. He loves you. Have a little faith. In him, if not in yourself. Much as it pains me to admit it, you're good together. You have been for a long time. Boinking the guy is icing on the cake. It's the profound bond you share that matters. And neither Heaven nor Hell can take that away from you."

"Wanna bet?" Dean muttered. "Crowley's done a damned good job of it. Chuck isn't responding to my calls. There's not so much as a glimmer from the damned bond. And Sam... Fuck! I can't bear to think of Sam... He won't survive this, Bobby. Another round in Hell will kill him. Worse than kill him... Why did Crowley have to take him? Why couldn't he have taken me?"

"Because he knows you'll suffer more on Sam's behalf than you would being tortured yourself. That demon's clever. But he's not infallible, Dean. We'll find a way. The solution is probably staring us right in the face."

"I think... I think maybe I will take that break," Dean murmured, turning his face away from the old hunter to hide the sudden sheen of tears that filled his eyes. "I'll just lie down for a few moments. Clear the wool out of my head."

Bobby watched as Dean fled the room, swift footsteps carrying him up the stairs. And then he sighed and turned his attention back to his book, ignoring the salty trickle that slid down his own cheek as his head bent over the pages.

* * *

Dean tried, but he could not find the rest he so sorely needed. The bed was far too wide and empty. The pillow smelled of Castiel, but it was cold and lifeless in his arms. Dean sat up with a sigh. One of Castiel's neatly folded T-shirts peeked out at Dean from a half-open duffle. Dean rolled off the bed and picked up the bag. Save for his winter jacket and boots, which were downstairs in a closet, all of Castiel's worldly possessions were contained within these folds of canvas. His few spare clothes. A Bible. His cell phone and ATM card. Two obviously well-loved and oft-handled photo strips. A winged, pink unicorn. Dean touched a finger to the tip of its horn and smiled.

"You make me happy too, Cas," he murmured, lying back down and aimlessly stroking the unicorn's silken blue mane. A blue that came nowhere close to the perfection of Castiel's blue eyes...

Somehow, slumber found him.

* * *

Castiel was dreaming, he had to be dreaming. He'd never seen this place before: the dark hallway stretching both before and behind, the dank and dirty flagstone floor, the low ceiling that forced him to stoop as he strode up and down the dimly lit hall. Heavy wooden doors lined either side of the passageway and both ends as well. All closed, all concealing something that he somehow knew should remain contained. To open a door meant death... but there was no escaping from this limbo if he did not choose.

"Dean?" he whispered.

"He is not here," a cold voice replied. "He cannot hear you."

"Crowley..." Castiel turned to face the speaker. "This is a dream."

"Indeed it is, darling," Crowley agreed, looking infinitely pleased with himself. "I placed you and Sam in stasis for ease of transport. You both slipped so sweetly into a coma that I have been unable to contact you. Until now. Until you began to dream."

"You cannot harm me here."

"Perhaps not," Crowley agreed. "But you cannot hide in dreams forever. You will choose to wake, or you will choose a door. Sam has already made his choice."

"Sam!" Castiel stepped closer to the demon, looming over him threateningly. "What did he choose?" he breathed.

"To wake. To live. To face the pain. He is brave, this human."

"If I awaken, you will not harm him further?" Castiel said. "You will set him free?"

"Oh no, Castiel. I can't promise you that. It would be a lie. He too must suffer. But I will grant you this: as long as you endure the justice I mete out, I will not touch him. He will watch, and learn what is to be his fate, but that is all. Until you scream for me to take him instead."

"He will have a long wait," Castiel said firmly.

"I certainly hope so," Crowley replied. "Wake up, Castiel. Wake up. Wake up..."

* * *

"Cas!" Dean screamed, and shot up from the bed. His entire left shoulder was a fiery mass of pain. Wincing, he peeled back his sleeve and stared at the handprint embossed there, the flesh red and raw and throbbing. Beyond a doubt, he knew that Castiel was the one in actual physical pain. "Oh, God," Dean moaned. "Oh, God!"

* * *

"Dean..." Castiel murmured. The glow started at his fingertips, crept up his arm and spread across his chest. Crowley stepped sharply back, the knife dropping from his hand as he watched the sigils he had just carved in Castiel's flesh draw closed before his very eyes. Castiel's head tilted back in ecstasy and he smiled. "Dean," he repeated, calm blue eyes focusing on the demon's suddenly pallid face. "Have faith, Sam. He is coming for us."

"I never doubted that he would," Sam replied.

"You're mad. You're both mad," Crowley said. "He's just a man. He cannot save you."

"Faith moves mountains," Castiel said serenely.

"Then I'll destroy his faith," Crowley growled. He snatched up Castiel's bloodied, crumpled trench coat from a table and made it vanish with a snap of his fingers. A second snap, and Sam's blood-soaked shirt also disappeared. "Let's see how Dean likes my little message," Crowley crooned.

* * *

"Cas," Dean repeated, a smile lighting his face, pain receding and hope blossoming in its place.

"Dean! Dean!" Bobby called urgently. "You gotta come see this. It looks bad, really bad."

Dean tore down the stairs and stared in disbelief at the bloodstained garments which had magically appeared on Bobby's porch. And then, much to Bobby's surprise, he burst into laughter.

"Gotcha," he chortled.

"Have you lost your marbles, boy? What do you need? A severed finger to get the message across?"

"Crowley's rattled," Dean said, opening the door and collecting the soiled clothing, breathing in the faint traces of his brother's cologne and the familiar, indescribable scent of Castiel. "He wouldn't bother sending me a message if he wasn't worried sick. He'd be too busy doing his thing. Pack up the car, Bobby. We're taking a little road trip."

"And just where do you think we're going, Dean?"

"I don't know," Dean said. He tapped his left shoulder. "But I've got a built in homing device and it's finally been triggered. I'm willing to bet my life that the road we take doesn't lead us to Hell. Crowley lied. He didn't have the power to take them there. That means he's still within our reach. It means he's only had them for three days. We're still talking real time. Cas is alive. Sam may be too."

"I'll drive," Bobby said. "We can't chance your funky radar running us into a tree if it says zig when the road says we should zag."

* * *

"That way," Dean said, pointing south.

Bobby gunned the Impala's engine and made the turn, barrelling down the I-29 just slightly over the speed limit, praying that some cop with a ticket quota to fill didn't pull them over for speeding. He wouldn't be responsible for Dean's actions if there was a delay.

"Does any of this look familiar to you?" Bobby asked a few hours later, as they exited the interstate and Dean directed him to turn left here, right there.

"Yeah," Dean said. "It does. I think I know where we're headed."

"Bootbock, Kansas," Bobby said softly.

"Crowley's lab." Dean nodded.

"We have a plan?"

"No. But I've never let that stop me. Step on it, Bobby. You drive like an old lady."

"You never saw my granny drive," Bobby snorted. But his foot pressed a little harder on the gas pedal, speeding them that much closer to their destination.

* * *

The upper levels of Crowley's lab appeared to be deserted, every window in the once grand old building blown. Wind whistled through the corridors, and rain-soaked floors and furniture were coated with a foul-looking green mould.

"Shouldn't we wait until it turns dark?" Bobby mumbled. "I'm feeling pretty exposed here."

"Not a minute, not a second," Dean growled. "He doesn't get to touch them any more than he already has."

"Personally, I think we're just handing him two more heads on a silver platter. We've got nothing, Dean."

"We've got hope," Dean said, holding his right hand to his left shoulder, and rubbing it comfortingly. "We've got Cas."

"Crowley has Cas..."

"Indeed I do," an amused voice said from behind them. "I have him, but he screams your name, Dean. Oh so prettily, he screams your name. But I'm sure you've heard him moan... seen him writhe... Such a pretty, pretty sight. I wonder... how much longer will he be pretty?"

"I'm going to kill you," Dean roared, sprinting across the hall towards the demon, Ruby's knife in his raised hand, only to find himself flung back against a wall. He slid down, white hot fire lancing his spine as bones and muscle protested the cruel treatment. Through a cloud of pain, he saw Bobby carelessly tossed to the opposing wall. The old hunter lay in a crumpled heap and did not rise.

"Turn back now, Dean, and I will let you go," Crowley whispered, grabbing Dean by his jacket's collar and effortlessly hauling him to his feet. "I won't make the offer again. Your angel is mine. Your brother, too. And when I'm finished with Sam, I'm going to buy myself an eternity of goodwill by giving Lucifer back his favourite squeaky toy. As for the angel... I don't think I'll ever tire of him. He's so... delicious."

"What's the matter, Crowley?" Dean spit a mouthful of blood in the demon's face. "Spread too thin? Bit off more than you can chew? It's not easy restraining an Angel of the Lord. I suspect it's draining all your energy. You're losing your grip on the damned souls. They're slippery motherfuckers, aren't they?"

"I have all the power I need," Crowley said, drawing a white handkerchief from his pocket and fastidiously wiping his face clean. "More than enough to deal with you."

"You just keep telling yourself that. Because I'm coming for my angel and my brother. Count on it."

"You've been warned," Crowley replied. And vanished.

Dean paused only long enough to check that Bobby was still amongst the living, before continuing down the hall which led to the basement stairs.

* * *

Courtesy of his own time spent in Hell, Dean's vivid imagination had provided him with more than a few horrific visions of Castiel and Sam being tortured past the point of being recognizable. And so, as he eased the door open a crack and peered into the foul depths of Crowley's lair, he was stunned to see the truth the demon had hidden behind his lies. His angel and his brother were relatively unharmed. Bloodied noses and bone-deep bruises, true. More than a few nasty-looking cuts and burns, but nothing life-threatening. Sam, especially, was in good shape. Shackled to the cement block wall at one end of the lab, more sweat than blood glistened on his bare torso. Dean breathed a little prayer of thanks, a breath that turned into a low growl as his eye was drawn back to the angel at the other end of the long chamber. Naked and helpless, Castiel was suspended by chains set in rings high above his head: his arms straining towards the ceiling, his anchored feet barely touching the floor. Slick trails of blood attested to his less fortunate condition.

Both men lifted their bowed heads when the heavy door crashed back against the wall and Dean stepped out on the landing.

"Dean!" Sam cried. "What the hell are you thinking? You can't just waltz in here like that!"

Dean slowly made his way down the metal staircase, pausing with one foot on the final tread as Crowley suddenly appeared before him, keeping a prudent distance from Ruby's knife, but still effectively barring Dean's progress.

"You were right, Dean," the demon admitted, eyes nictitating like a snake's, turning black and brown in turn as he struggled to keep himself together. "The souls are fading... draining my borrowed power as they go. But I am still the King of Hell. I am still the most powerful creature in this room. You'd do well to remember that."

"Get out of my way," Dean warned, taking a step forward.

Crowley matched him step for step as they began to warily circle each other. "I don't have time for this," he snarled.

"I'm kinda in a rush myself," Dean replied. "You've lost, Crowley. You can't have them. So feel free to fuck off any time now."

"Maybe I can't have them both... but neither can you."

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and blinked uncertainly. "What are you saying?" he said.

"I'm saying, you pathetic excuse for a hominid, that you can't be in two places at the same time. So go ahead and choose, Dean. The angel or your brother? Whichever one you go for, the other is mine. And, I promise," he teased, wetting his lips with predatory anticipation, "he'll have good cause to curse your name for the rest of his very eternal and exceedingly miserable life. You think Alastair acquainted you with Hell? Why, Dean, that was just the suburbs. Wait until I show off the heart of town."

"No," Dean whispered, his eyes flicking back and forth from Sam to Castiel, his mind frantically scrabbling for a solution to this fucking dilemma. "No... What if – what if I take their place?" he offered hopefully. "Please? Please take me instead."

"No!" Sam and Castiel's voices rang out, both men furiously and futilely struggling against their restraints.

"Sorry," Crowley said loftily. "You're not my type. Your brother or the angel. That's the only deal I'm willing to make." He glanced at his Rolex impatiently. "Tick tock, tick tock... You have precisely ten seconds to decide... and then I make the choice for you."

"Take your brother and leave, Dean," Castiel ordered.

"Nine..." Crowley said.

Dean took a step in Sam's direction.

"Eight..."

Dean wheeled back towards Castiel.

"Seven..."

Two steps towards Sam.

"Six..."

He cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the angel.

"Five..."

A third and fourth step his brother's way.

"Four..."

Dean twisted to look at Castiel. The angel smiled, and nodded encouragingly.

"Three..."

Sam's face shone with trust and love.

"Two..."

Dean risked a glance at Crowley. The demon smirked, and took a step towards Castiel.

"One..."

"Noooooooooooooo!" Dean wailed, the keening cry clearly the sound of his heart breaking. "No! No! _No!"_

Sam's jaw dropped open in disbelief as his brother spun on his heel and broke into a flat out run: frantic, pounding footsteps swiftly carrying him towards Castiel.

"OhGod-ohGod-ohGod-ohGod," Dean chanted as he flew across the room and wrapped his arms around his angel. "Oh, God!" he sobbed. "Oh God, Cas, I love you. _I love you!"_

"Close your eyes, Dean!" Castiel shouted, snapping the chains as if they were made of wet paper and assuming battle stance with a speed and grace beyond Dean's mortal comprehension. "Sam! Close your eyes!"

Dean buried his face against the avenging angel's bare and bleeding shoulder and closed his eyes. He heard the whip and crackle of Castiel's wings unfolding, felt an electric current jolt through every cell in his body as the angel's hand slotted into place upon his mark.

"_Crowley..._" Castiel's deep voice growled.

And the room exploded with light.


	14. The Power and the Glory

In retrospect, clinging to an angel who was in the process of going supernova was not the brightest move Dean had ever made in a life already filled with bad decisions. Every square inch of exposed skin instantly blistered and peeled, as if he'd ventured too close to the sun. Even with his eyes squeezed as tightly shut as was humanly possible, radiation burned through his eyelids and hot tears leaked from the corners of each eye. It took several tries before Dean could force his eyes open, as a rustling sound announced the disappearance of Castiel's wings and the angel's death grip finally loosened on his arm.

Dean lifted his head and blinked until Castiel's face swam slowly into view.

There was not a scratch on the angel, not a blemish, not a trace of blood. Even his anti-possession tattoo was gone! His skin glowed like a marble statue in moonlight, the perfect flesh as cold and unyielding to the touch as any night-kissed stone would be. The fact that he was nude did not seem to trouble Castiel in the slightest. His gaze was stern as he released Dean's shoulder and made careful appraisal of the damage his unleashed Grace had caused to the human. A gentle brush of his fingers against Dean's cheek instantly healed all of the hunter's injuries, but when Dean leaned his face into the angel's hand, Castiel frowned and quickly stepped away.

"Cas?" Dean whispered. "Castiel?"

"Yes?" Castiel tilted his head and stared at Dean inquiringly. A high-pitched hum of power assaulted Dean's protesting eardrums and rippled the air between them, as if Castiel was not quite in control of his reinstated Glory and was a heartbeat away from bursting into his true form.

"I'm guessing we overshot our Angel of the Lord target," Dean said nervously. "What are you, Cas? Are you a god again?"

"No." Castiel's gaze lost focus as he directed all his concentration inward, probing, testing, assessing. "But it would seem I have, as you might say, been promoted. I am an archangel, Dean."

"Archangel? That's quite the promotion."

Castiel's head tilt deepened as he listened to a voice only he could hear. "I am being summoned," he said. "I must go."

"So, this is goodbye?" Dean said, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat.

"I do not know," Castiel replied soberly, and vanished with a familiar flutter of invisible wings.

"Fuck," Dean said. "Fuck. Like that never gets old."

* * *

As badly as Dean had fared, Crowley's fate was worse. All that remained of the King of Hell was a little pile of charred dust and a blackened lump of silver. Dean bent and picked up the misshapen coin, depositing it in his pocket for safe-keeping before continuing on his way across the room to Sam.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Sam said, sharp eyes studying his brother's wan face.

"I'm good. Never better. Mission accomplished, Sammy. God and Cas are in Heaven, all's right with the world." Dean freed his brother from his restraints and drew him into a hug so fierce that it threatened to crack the taller man's ribs.

"Pretty damned clever of you," Sam grunted, trying to fill his aching lungs with much needed air. "Leave it to you to figure out a way to save us both. Though, I have to admit, you had me going there for a few minutes. I really thought you had chosen Cas over me." Wriggling his arms free, he pushed Dean back until he could see his face again.

A single tear rolled from one green eye, painting a silvery trail down Dean's cheek.

"Dean?"

"We'd better go see to Bobby," Dean said, releasing Sam and scrubbing a trembling hand across his face. "He's hurt." Measured footsteps carried him to the base of the stairs and he began to climb them without a backwards glance.

"Dean?" Sam called, hastening after his brother. "That was the plan... right? To save us both? _Dean?"_

Dean made no reply.

* * *

Bobby was conscious, but still lying on the floor: his back against the wall and both legs sprawled out in front of him, the left one twisted at an impossible angle. He looked up when Sam and Dean rounded the corner, and huffed out a relieved sigh. "It's about time you two idjits got here," he grumbled. "That Limey bastard dislocated my shoulder and broke my fucking leg. I thought I was going to have to crawl back to the car." He glanced behind the brothers expectantly. "Where's your angel, Dean? Think he might have a little healin' mojo to spare?"

"I'm sure he would, if he was here," Dean sighed. "But he buggered off to Heaven after smiting Crowley. We'll have to do this the old fashioned way." A few quick gestures of his hand signalled his intent to Sam. Sam nodded.

"But he'll be back, right?" Bobby said, as they formed a cradle with their arms and carefully settled the old hunter in the improvised seat.

"I don't know," Dean replied, his mouth pinched into a tight line and a world of hurt shimmering in his eyes.

"He'll be back," Sam stated confidently. "I just hope he has the decency to pick up some clothing along the way. Which reminds me, do I have a clean shirt in the car?"

* * *

Despite being in the driver's seat instead of riding in the back, the sense of _déjà vu_ was overwhelming as Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Bootbock General Hospital. As Sam sprinted off to commandeer a wheelchair, Dean's hands clenched upon the steering wheel, and his breath hitched in his throat.

"Okay there, Dean?" Bobby said quietly.

"I'm the one who's supposed to be asking you that," Dean weakly joked.

"Dean..."

"Don't," Dean begged. "Please... don't. Not now, Bobby. Let's just get you doctored up so we can get out of here."

Sam returned just then, and the brothers busied themselves with transferring Bobby to the wheelchair and rolling him inside. Sam filled out the form this time, and when it was completed Dean made his way to the admittance desk and handed over the clipboard and a credit card. Inevitably, it was the same nurse on duty. Equally as inevitably, she recognized Dean.

"Back again, Mr. Jagger? Another fall?"

"Yes," Dean said shortly.

"Your family has the damnedest luck," she murmured.

"You have no idea," Dean replied.

* * *

The drive back to Sioux Falls was a quiet one, save for the exhausted snores rising from the Impala's backseat. Several times Sam sought to initiate a conversation, but each time the taut line of Dean's jaw had him snap his own mouth shut and stare out the window instead. Just as they made the turn into Singer's Salvage Yard, the heavens opened and sheets of rain pelted across the windshield, blinding Dean until he switched the wipers on full blast. Even then, he was hard pressed to safely park the car. All three men were drenched by the time they finally reached the refuge of Bobby's house. As Bobby sat shivering on a kitchen chair, Sam ran upstairs to change and fetch the old hunter some dry clothes.

Good thing you're such a pack rat," Dean teased, digging Bobby's old wheelchair out from the back of an overflowing closet. Resolutely, he turned his eyes from the warm winter coat and boots Castiel no longer would require, and concentrated instead on helping Bobby into the chair.

"I hoped I'd never see this thing again," Bobby grumbled.

"At least it's only temporary this time. You'll be on crutches before you know it."

"There's that," Bobby acknowledged, wheeling himself towards the downstairs bath. Sam trotted down the stairs just then, and dropped a pile of clothing in his lap in passing. "It's like riding a damned bike," the old man muttered as he slammed the bathroom door.

"Dean?"

"Not now, Sam. I have to get out of these wet clothes. Catching pneumonia would be the final goddamned straw."

"But, Dean..."

"I said, _not now, Sam!"_ Dean shouted. "Not now. Not ever. Do you understand?"

"Sure thing, Dean," Sam whispered to his brother's back as Dean loped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door. _There's a lot of that going around tonight,_ Sam thought sadly. _This is supposed to be a victory party._ Sighing heavily, he rummaged in a cupboard until he found a couple of cans of soup to heat up for supper.

* * *

Dean had no appetite, but he forced down a bowl of piping hot soup and even had seconds just to erase the kicked puppy look from Sam's eyes. Bobby's head was nodding before he finished his first serving. Yawning widely, he excused himself and his chair squeaked its way to the bed Sam and Dean had lugged downstairs and set up in the study.

Sam looked at Dean. Dean returned the stare. Neither spoke. Neither quite knew what to say.

Sam cracked first under the tension. "Uh," he said. "I'm a little tired too. Do you mind?"

"Nah. Go ahead and get your beauty rest. I'll clean up down here, then hit the hay myself."

Okay..." Sam hesitated, then flung his arms around his brother and hugged him tight. "Goodnight, Dean," he mumbled, and fled.

"G'nite, Sammy," Dean belatedly replied. Knowing he would find no easy escape in sleep, he puttered around the kitchen, tidying up the few dishes in the sink, before turning off the light and seating himself at the table with a bottle he'd cleverly liberated from a dusty shelf. Pouring a glass full to the brim, he raised it towards the ceiling in a mocking toast. "Here's to you, Cas, you stupid son of a bitch," he said. "I hope you choke on those damned wings."

Dean tossed the drink down in one. A second glass followed the first. And then, stealing past Bobby, he carried the third glass and the half empty bottle with him up the stairs, retaining wits enough to know he didn't want his brother to find him passed out cold on the floor in the morning. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth drink, the hunter staggered from the window overlooking the scrap yard to his lonely bed and stretched out on the covers without bothering to remove so much as his boots. And as he sipped the amber liquid, fire trickling down his throat and numbing the pain, he closed his eyes and pretended that it didn't have to be this way. That love didn't always rip the still beating heart out of your breast. That happily ever afters really happened. That Castiel was curled beside him in the bed: soft lips pressed to his cheek, gentle fingers stroking through his hair, whispering: "everything is going to be all right. I promise, Dean." And it was. It really was.

The glass slipped from Dean's lax hand and tumbled to the floor.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure what woke him. One minute he was sound asleep, lost in a dreamless slumber, and the next his eyes snapped open and he launched himself up from the bed, heart pounding, mouth dry and his alcohol-laden stomach heaving from the sudden motion, although his brain was once again disgustingly stone-cold sober.

Stumbling his way across the room to the window, he peered out into the dooryard.

It was a dark and stormy night. Of course it was. Dean's life was filled with dark and stormy nights, each crap storm bigger and badder than the previous one. He'd be a fool to ever anticipate anything else.

Dean pressed his forehead against a cold windowpane and sighed, his eyes suddenly drawn to the unmistakable figure of Castiel standing out there in the pouring rain: unruly hair slicked to his skull, his face and arms triumphantly lifted to the sky. The shadow of great, dark wings flickered in and out of view as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The air pulsed with an invisible current that prickled at the back of Dean's neck and raised goose bumps on his arms. Castiel, Archangel of the Lord, was truly a wonder to behold. Dean should be happy for him. He knew he should. Why then, did he feel as if he'd been sucker punched? He couldn't breathe... he couldn't fucking breathe...

Castiel's arms stretched wider, as if to embrace the eternity that was his birthright. His mouth opened and a cry of pure, unadulterated joy whooped from his lungs and momentarily drowned out the fury of the storm. And, then, Castiel closed his eyes and simply stood there, lost in a rapture of complete union with the universe.

"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "How can I ever compete with _that?"_

"Hello, Dean," Chuck said, his image suddenly mirrored in the glass.

"Hello, Chuck," Dean replied, carefully maintaining his rigid stance. "I suppose you're here to collect your angel?"

"Yes... if he so wishes. But I rather doubt he will. He is no longer mine, Dean. From the moment he first laid eyes upon you, he has been yours. Angel or human, he has poured all his faith, all his hope, into his love for you."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Dean did turn at that, his green eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting my pride... But, at the same time, it pleases me greatly. Castiel is one of many – one very small part of a very vast host, all cut from the same cloth – and yet he is unique amongst his brethren. Knowing you – loving you – has made him so much more than it was ever intended an angel would be. I know a father is not supposed to have favourites, but he is very precious to me. I am proud of my son – be he human or angel – and if he chooses to love and follow you, I will respect that choice."

"Oh," said Dean in a tiny little voice.

"Castiel and I had a lovely little chat earlier this evening. I gave him a few options to mull over. He may ascend and assume the duties of an archangel, replacing Michael as commander of the Holy Host. He may retain his original allotment of Grace and divide his time between Earth and Heaven. Or, he may spend his days with you as a human. Love you as you so need to be loved. Grow old with you... " Chuck smiled fondly. "I have it on good authority that it would be a very long and happy life."

"I can't ask that of him," Dean whispered.

"It's not a matter of asking, it's a matter of accepting."

"Then, I can't accept such a gift. He belongs in Heaven."

"Yes, he does," Chuck nodded. "And he will be there again someday. But, right now, his home – his heaven – is where you are. So, until you walk amongst us," Chuck pointed upwards, "it would be cruel to take him there against his will."

"Chuck..."

"Your lifetime is but the blink of an eye in my long existence, Dean. My son – all of my sons – will return to me. And they will be honoured. Castiel will stand at my right hand, you and Sam at my left."

"You must be running low on henchmen if you're considering me for a job upstairs."

"Castiel did manage to thin the ranks a bit," Chuck said wryly.

"Yeah." Dean grinned reminiscently. "He was pretty kick ass, wasn't he? And now he is again." The grin faded. "Just look at him, Chuck... He's happy. He may not want to give that power up. Not so soon... maybe not ever. "

"He is subject to a greater power," Chuck rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. "He's in love with you, Dean. And your secret is out, we all know you feel the same way. Don't you think it's time to match words to action? Go to him. Ask him to stay with you. Accept his answer."

"What if he says no?" Dean whispered, turning his gaze back to Castiel. If ever that dick angel had needed a trench coat, it was now. His shirt and slacks were plastered to his body, clinging closer than a second skin. As close as Dean longed to be. "What if he – What if I – "

But when he forced himself to turn, unable to articulate his jumbled thoughts, hoping God could read the question in his eyes, Chuck had vanished.

* * *

Dean slipped into his own jacket, then picked up Castiel's trench coat from where it still lay in a crumpled heap to one side of the kitchen door. Draping it over his arm, he stepped outside. Rain slanted in under the porch roof and soaked the bottom half of his jeans long before he ventured into the muddy yard. Slogging through puddles and shivering from the cold, Dean made his careful way towards Castiel, slowing his pace to a snail's crawl as he drew near. Sensing his approach, the angel's gaze unerringly turned from the heavens and focused on Dean. Castiel's wings shivered and disappeared between one flash of lightning and the next.

"You came back," Dean said, stating the obvious.

"Dean," Castiel chided gently, "you must have known that I would."

"No. I really didn't know that. Not after the way you just up and left."

"I could not refuse my Father's summons... but nothing could keep me away," Castiel said. "I was prepared to do battle with Him if He tried to keep me from you. I'm sorry you thought otherwise."

The hunter stared silently at the angel, keeping his face deliberately blank, though there was a wealth of emotion swirling in his eyes. Whether that was a good thing or a bad, Castiel could not say without using his 'angel mojo' to invade the human's highly prized right to privacy. But, knowing Dean, he could make an educated guess.

"Dean..." Castiel softly begged. "Please, Dean..."

As Dean saw it, he had a few choices of his own to make. He could extract justice for his injured pride, stalk off in a self-righteous huff and tell Castiel to go to hell – in other words, bite off his nose to spite his face. He could mete out forgiveness drop by jealous drop and make Castiel suffer the same pangs of uncertainty as he had suffered. Or he could let it go. Let it all go, all the hurts, real or imaginary, that had defined him through the years. He could do as his heart commanded, and make the choice he should have made weeks ago – fuck, months ago! Forgive Cas. Love Cas.

Dean shook out the trench coat and draped it around Castiel's shoulders. "There's a saying here on Earth," he said. "You may have heard it. Something about not having enough sense to come in out of the rain?"

Castiel smiled, spreading his coat open like unfurling wings, clearly inviting Dean to step inside the circle of his arms.

"That's not a very archangel-y way to behave," Dean observed, looping his arms around Castiel's waist and nestling close to a very reassuringly warm body.

"I declined the promotion," Castiel said quietly, wrapping the coat around them both.

"Oh?" Dean said. "Was that wise?"

"Yes," Castiel stated firmly. "I did not like the way so much power eroded the humanity I worked so hard to acquire. Worse, I was loath to touch you – gravely concerned that I might inadvertently cause you harm."

"I thought you were done with me."

"Never, Dean," Castiel murmured. "I will never 'be done' with you." Without giving Dean a chance to respond to this declaration, unable to bear another moment without relearning the sweet taste of his complicated human, the angel kissed him. And a most un-angelic kiss it was: all spit-slicked lips and hot, questing tongue; sharp teeth and sharper need; hunger and lust and love...

"Oh, God..." Dean moaned, as their lips parted and he drew in great gulping breaths of air. He froze, his eyes widening as he realized what he'd said. But there was no flash of light, not a tingle from Castiel's mark.

"No God," Castiel murmured. "There's only you and me here now. At least... I hope there is still a you and me. I know how much my disappearance hurt you... and when you hear what else I have to say..." He bit his lip and stared even more intently than usual at the hunter. "I am frightened, Dean."

"I can't imagine anything scaring you, Cas."

"The thought of losing you is terrifying."

"I know the feeling," Dean murmured, hugging him closer, tighter. "You don't get to do that anymore, do you hear? You don't get to flutter off heaven knows where without letting me know you intend to come back. Chuck can kiss my ass if he doesn't like the delay, but I get an explanation before you leave. Ideally, I get kissed stupid every time you say goodbye."

"Yes, Dean," Castiel said meekly. "I promise. Just as I promise to always honestly answer any questions you might have. Anything you want to ask, Dean. Anything at all."

"Okay," Dean sighed and stepped back, squaring his shoulders.. "Okay... here's a question for you. It's been bugging me for some time now. What was with all the colours each time we... uh... mojoed you up?"

"The white symbolized forgiveness at its most basic level. The blue was the core of my Grace. The green... it was your soul. You touched me with your very soul. I could have asked no greater honour... dreamed of no greater ecstasy..."

Dean's mouth formed a perfect 'O' of amazement. "Are you saying my soul was fucking your Grace?" he said slowly.

"Your soul _elevated_ my Grace. That is not the same thing at all. There was nothing crass about it, Dean. It was pure and good and – "

"Crowley was right. I'm the lowest of the low. I sullied the light with my touch. With my base desires."

"No."

"I dragged an angel down into the muck with me."

"No! You did not do anything to me that I did not wish for you to do. Nothing that I had not wished for a very long time."

"What are you saying, Cas?"

"You are not the one who sullied the light, Dean. It was I. Long before you wanted me, I wanted you. The dark souls were a means to achieve that end. Yes, I primarily sought to use them to protect you but, more than that, I wanted to possess you. I wanted you to be completely mine. And I did everything within my power to achieve that goal."

"No, Cas..."

Castiel took a deep breath and leaned in until he was very, very sure Dean could read the sincerity in his eyes.

"I love you, Dean. I am in love with you. All else pales before that truth... nothing else matters to me. Not God, not Earth, not my own continued existence. You are everything to me. And the night we..." Castiel blushed. "The night we first had sex – No! The night we first made love! Because that is what it was, there's no denying it! – you wanted to know why I asked you to bow down and love me...

"To deepen our bond has always been my heart's desire. Even full to overflowing with all those dark souls, I was empty. Your soul was the only soul I craved. The only touch I needed to make me whole."

Castiel's hand lifted and reached out towards Dean, but instantly dropped back down to his side as if he was afraid the human would bolt and run from this unwelcome advance.

"As the darkness consumed me, the only thought in my mind, the only thing I clung to, the only bit of me that continued to exist, was the part of me that loves you. I hoped that you might care enough to admit you loved me too... that your love would save me... and, in a sense, it did. You stood up to God himself for me. But you couldn't say the words out loud. Not until today. Of course, now that you know the truth of my duplicity, I will not hold you to your confession. I may be an angel once again, but I am not worthy of your love."

"Cas... This thing between us... it's growing stronger every day. Already it's so big that I can't wrap my head around it. I can't imagine where it's going or how it's going to end... but I know this. I want you in my life. I want you in my bed. Nothing you've said has changed my mind about that. So you were tempted... I've been tempted too. You saw what I became. You pulled me out of Hell. You loved me anyway. Don't you think you deserve to be rescued too? Your only crime is love. You said it yourself, God rewarded you for that. He gave you the chance to learn what love really means. You're a star pupil, Cas. I've never seen anyone with more love to give."

"Look in a mirror, Dean," Castiel whispered. "Look in a mirror and you will see how very wrong you are. If only you could see the man I see..."

"We're a fine pair, aren't we?" Dean chuckled, drawing close to Castiel again. "Good thing we have each other. Who else would want us?"

"You forgive me?" Castiel said disbelievingly. "Just like that, you forgive me?"

Dean captured Castiel's face between his hands. "I _love_ you," he replied. "Now... do you think we can move this conversation in out of the fucking rain? There's something I have to ask you..."

"The answer is yes."

"But you don't know the question."

"It doesn't matter," Castiel murmured. And kissed him.


	15. A Time to Love

The cruel November rain continued to beat down upon them, and still Castiel and Dean stood locked in a tight embrace. Over and over, Castiel's lips claimed Dean's, stealing the breath from his very lungs, setting his entire being aflame, erasing any thoughts of discomfort from his mind. Over and over, eager hands stroked and caressed and teased, until Dean shivered not from the cold, but from pure sensory overload. And still the angel kissed him. And still the human craved more, encouraging each touch, each taste, with a counterattack of frenzied kisses that made the angel kiss him even more passionately.

Fortunately, Castiel remembered the human's need for air before Dean practically kissed his way into asphyxiation. One hand petting Dean's face, the other tenderly cradling the nape of his neck, he drew their foreheads together as Dean finally remembered how to breathe.

"Ani ohev et otha," Castiel murmured. "Te amo. S'agapo. Techi 'hila. Je t'aime. Я тебя люблю. Ich liebe dich."

"Cas?"

"I love you," Castiel replied, smiling broadly. "I _love_ you! It is pleasing on the tongue, whatever the language. I want to shout it to the heavens, write it in the sky." He gestured and a bolt of lightning curved to his will, quickly forming the words 'I love you' in letters miles high and twice as wide, the sizzling font slowly drifting to earth in a cascade of sparks that brought tears to Dean's dazzled eyes.

"I love you, too," Dean said. "I can't turn the sky into a billboard, but it's carved deep in my heart, inscribed on my very soul. I hope you know that, Cas."

"I do now," Castiel whispered hoarsely, easily coaxing Dean's lips back to his own.

"Bed..." Dean murmured, an eon of kisses later. "Bed, Cas. Let's go to bed."

"Yes," Castiel said softly. "Yes, Dean. It is time we consummated our bond."

Two fingers brushed against the human's temple and the lovers vanished, leaving only rain to fill the space where they had been standing.

* * *

"I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," Dean joked, as the world stopped spinning and his brain belatedly caught up with his body.

"We never were in Kansas, we were in South Dakota," Castiel said, confusion crinkling his brow. "Don't you remember, Dean? And now we are in Motu Tetaraire. The Rangiroa Atoll," he elaborated when Dean continued to stare at him blankly. "Tahiti, Dean. We are on a private island in Tahiti. I have ensured there are no other humans here."

"Cas..." Dean swept his gaze around a tasteful and luxurious room, his breath catching as he caught a moonlit glimpse of palm trees and bone-white sand through the thin veil of a fluttering curtain. "You booked us a romantic getaway in Tahiti?"

"If it is not to your liking..." Castiel said uncertainly. He held up his fingers, offering to transport them wherever Dean wished.

Dean swatted his hand aside. "Don't you dare," he whispered. "Don't you dare offer me paradise and then snatch it away before I get to sample all it offers."

"You are pleased?" Castiel questioned anxiously. "The location meets with your approval?"

"This is... beyond special, Cas." Dean said firmly. "It's perfect."

"Oh... Good. I thought..." A light flush travelled up the Castiel's neck. "I thought we might require privacy. The walls of Bobby's house are very thin, and I do not know if I can be silent... when we... when we... uh..."

"I certainly hope you can't keep quiet," Dean chuckled. "I want to hear every word you have to say. I want to savour every breath, every sigh, every gasp, every moan. I want to make you scream..."

"That might not be wise," Castiel noted wryly, slipping his fingers in between Dean's and lacing them tightly together. "What if I inadvertently cry out in my True Voice?"

"Huh. Point taken," Dean said. "Okay then, _you_ make _me_ scream. That will do just as well."

"I do not know if I am capable of achieving that goal."

"Don't sweat it, Cas. Half the fun is trying to get there."

"And the other half?"

"You'll see," Dean promised, grinning wickedly.

* * *

Castiel's trench coat hit the floor with a sodden _thump_ as Dean pushed it from his shoulders. And, then, the hunter fumbled with the buttons of Castiel's shirt, growling a little deep down in his throat as his desire to bare the angel to his touch was thwarted by stubborn plastic, wet cloth and fingers still too numb from the cold rain to properly function.

Castiel gently moved Dean's hands aside and removed the offending garment himself by the simple expedient of ripping it from his body in one fluid motion, the noise of buttons pinging off the floor and furniture loud in the solemn silence that had fallen upon the room. Dean shrugged free of his jacket and impatiently pulled his T-shirt over his head. The remainder of their clothing melted away – aided, Dean noted approvingly, by an equally impatient wave of Castiel's hand.

Green eyes met blue, and for a moment neither man moved, lost deep in a communion that encompassed far more than mere words could ever say. A blissful amalgam of: _I want you... I love you... you are mine..._

They sank into the bed as if it were a cloud, billows of white rising up to halt and cushion their fall. Castiel's head tossed restlessly on the pillow, his dark hair sticking out in flyaway spikes that tickled against Dean's face as he leaned down to kiss his angel. Within minutes, Castiel's lips were red and swollen from kisses both stolen and freely given, and a staccato of helpless _oh oh oh_s escaped him each time their mouths parted long enough for Dean to gulp down a much needed breath of air.

Dean had expected a contest of wills, each vying to outdo the other and seize command of the situation. After all, he was very much an alpha male and most of his encounters in the past had been marked by macho posturing and territorial pissing around. But, much to his surprise, what he felt now was a need to surrender. A need to give rather than take.

"Cas," he murmured, rolling to one side and gripping the angel so that he rolled too, the end result being that Castiel came to rest splayed out on top of the hunter. "Cas," he repeated. "Please? I want you."

"You have me," Castiel moaned, pressing down as Dean pressed up. "You have me. I am yours, Dean. Only yours."

A little huff of amusement tinged with frustration puffed against Castiel's cheek.

"I mean I _want_ you," Dean said. "I want you to – "

"Oh!" Castiel breathed. "_Oh_..."

"Yeah..." Dean sighed contentedly as Castiel propped himself up on his elbows and and gave an experimental thrust of his hips. "Yeah, like that... but more..."

"Dean..." Castiel groaned and leaned down until his forehead touched against Dean's, his hand slotting into place upon his mark. "If we do this – "

"If?" Dean said heatedly.

Castiel drew back until he could look deep into the human's eyes. "_If_ we do this," he repeated soberly. "If we... celebrate our union... while I am fully an angel, I need you to understand that it is forever. The bond we forge will be eternal. Unbreakable."

"Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

"Yes," Castiel replied. "Yes. You know it is. But, is it what _you_ want? I need you to be sure... very sure..."

"I'm sure, Cas," Dean whispered. "I've never been more fucking certain about anything in my entire life. I love you. An eternity of loving you won't be nearly long enough for me."

"Dean..." Castiel moaned, and quickly closed his eyes to contain the sudden light that flared up in a bright corona, blue encircling blue with an all consuming flame.

Dean waited as patiently as he could, now and then pressing light kisses to the angel's closed eyelids, feeling an unnatural heat tingle against his lips and loving it. Loving Castiel. Touching Castiel with hands that trembled with lust, with reverence. Lost to emotions too profound to sully with a name.

Slowly, as Castiel regained a modicum of self control, he began to respond to the gentle kisses, the soothing touches, blindly nudging Dean's mouth back into alignment with his own, the kiss deepening as both men fell into a perfect rhythm of lips and tongues and straying hands.

The unbearable brilliance had vanished by the time Castiel's eyes finally re-opened, but hunger burned in its place. "Now, Dean," the words rasped from his throat. "Now."

"Yes," Dean sighed, and offered his body to the angel as he had already offered his heart and soul: utterly and completely, nothing held back, nothing hidden.

Instinctively, Dean's right hand rose to grasp Castiel's left shoulder, his fingers sinking into the angel's unresisting flesh, the skin beneath his touch searingly hot. A clear impression of his handprint rose up to meet his palm, each individual finger, in a brand to match the one he bore on his own arm. A physical manifestation of their bond. His answering claim. His mark upon his angel, labelling him his, his, his...

Dean's mouth shaped the angel's name as the breath escaped his lungs in a sudden whoosh of air. Slender fingers tightened possessively on Dean's arm as Castiel's head tilted back towards the ceiling and he abruptly screamed, "Close your eyes, Dean! Close your eyes!"

Dean obeyed, his arms encircling the angel, drawing him closer to his wildly beating heart.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, kissing parted lips, swallowing panting breaths, and sinking down upon the human's body as if his will alone could meld them together as one for all time. "Mine," he murmured contentedly.

"Yours," came Dean's soft reply. "As you are mine."

"Yours in every way you can imagine."

It was both a promise and a challenge. Dean's breath caught in his throat as he stared into electric blue eyes, and his pulse quickened as a wealth of possibilities raced though his mind.

Castiel's mouth curved in a smile as he deposited a chaste kiss upon the human's brow. "How vivid is your imagination, Dean?" he teased.

And, just like that, Dean was ready for round two.

* * *

"Unh..." Dean moaned, collapsing heavily onto Castiel.

Warm arms wrapped around him, drawing him closer, offering to be his strength until his own returned.

For long minutes, Dean lay pillowed on his angel's chest, heartbeat gradually slowing to a less frantic tempo, drifting on a wave of sleepy contentment.

A light patter of kisses on the top of his head finally stirred him back to consciousness.

"Sorry," he murmured, sliding sideways until his weight rested on the king-sized bed, rather than on his lover. A gentle hand touched Castiel's lips, stroked across his cheek, and slid up to ruffle through already thoroughly tousled hair. "I didn't mean to conk out on you like that. Are you okay?"

"I am perfectly content, thank you, Dean."

"Good." Dean drew Castiel's face to his, their lips meeting in a slow and tender kiss. As it ended, the human nestled his face against the angel's neck, trying to smother a yawn and failing miserably.

"Sleep, Dean," Castiel ordered, his amused voice a warm rumble in Dean's ear.

"Wha'bout you?" Dean mumbled, already more than half way lost to slumber.

"I will be here when you awaken," the angel promised.

"Meant... you sleep?" Dean muttered, and drifted off between one breath and the next.

"I have no need of sleep," Castiel softly answered. "No need of food or drink. No need of anything but you, Dean."

A soft snore was his only reply.

* * *

By 6:55 am Castiel's meticulous tally of Dean's slow breaths over the past four hours had reached the grand total of two thousand eight hundred eighty-five, slightly in excess of a twelve per sec norm – five dream-induced, agitated breaths at 4:03 am swiftly calmed by the angel resting a warm hand over the human's heart. Dean had trustingly nestled closer and slipped back into a dreamless sleep, leaving Castiel to continue his solitary vigil.

The sun was well in the sky now, sunrise long since left behind. A light breeze blew in the open window, scented with a hundred fragrant flowers, the tang of sea salt, and sun-warmed sand. The first day of their new life together beckoned, but Dean slept blissfully on and Castiel found himself reluctant to disturb the human's much needed repose. He would be patient. He would contemplate the wonder that was this moment. He would think of the many joys to come... all the love that they would share...

Quite suddenly, it occurred to the angel that Dean had been missing from Bobby's for almost seven hours. His absence would surely have been remarked upon by now, given the three hour difference in time zones. Sam and Bobby would be gravely concerned.

_Bat-shit-crazy worried,_ Dean's voice rang clearly in his mind.

Castiel gave the matter careful consideration, then quietly mojoed himself free of the bed and Dean's octopus-like embrace. A frown creased the angel's forehead as he stood looking down at the peacefully sleeping man. He wasn't answering Heaven's summons, nor would he be gone long, so waking Dean to 'kiss him stupid' and say goodbye did not seem particularly appropriate or necessary. Castiel bent and brushed a feather-light kiss on Dean's cheek instead, well pleased with this compromise. And then he willed a pad of paper and a pen into existence and neatly wrote:

_Returning to Bobby's to advise them of our whereabouts.  
Back soon. Will bring breakfast.  
Cas_

Castiel read his message through twice before smiling and adding a bold _'I love you, Dean'_ in the empty space below his name.

After propping the pad of paper against a pillow and setting wards to protect the room in his absence, the angel vanished, the flutter of his wings masked by a seagull's plaintive cry.

* * *

Sam knew something was amiss the moment he stepped from his room out to the hall and discovered Dean's bedroom door was open. The bedcovers were rumpled, but still drawn up over the pillows in as neat an attempt as Dean ever undertook to make his bed. Dean's cell phone was laying on the nightstand, next to a bottle of Jim Beam that was not by any optimistic reckoning half full. In fact, Sam would be surprised if there was so much as half a shot left. The reek of alcohol was heavy on the air, the remains from a dropped glass spread out in a sticky puddle on the floor.

Dean would never have left this damning evidence for his brother to discover. He would have hidden away the emptied bottle as carefully as he always tried to hide how badly he was hurting.

Something unexpected had drawn him from the room. Something unexpected had prevented his return.

Sam clattered down the stairs and entered the kitchen.

Bobby was already seated at the table, a plate of toast and cup of coffee clear evidence that the old man wasn't going to let a little thing like being crippled slow him down.

"Where's Dean?" Sam blurted, foregoing any exchange of pleasantries.

"Upstairs?" Bobby replied, easily divining from the expression on Sam's face that this was not the case. A quick glance at the coat hook confirmed his suspicions. "His jacket's gone," he said.

Sam crossed the room and peered out the door. The Impala was still parked where they had left it last night in their mad dash to get in out of the storm. A single trail of footsteps wended their way from the porch to the centre of the yard, the indentations partially filled with rainwater. The final set of Dean's tracks went toe to toe with other prints that appeared from nowhere and led nowhere in turn.

"Cas's coat is missing too," Bobby observed. "Think that idjit angel finally came back for Dean?"

"Seems that way," Sam said. "I'd feel better if I knew for sure... but what I'm seeing looks like a rendezvous." He grinned, noting how deep the depression was where the two prints met.

"Told him his freaking angel would come back," Bobby muttered, spreading jam on his toast and helping himself to a hearty bite.

Sam nodded, and busied himself with his own breakfast preparations.

They were quietly engrossed in research three hours later when the clock chimed 10:00 am and a flutter of wings announced the arrival of company.

"Hi, Cas," Sam said, glancing up from his computer screen. "How's Dean doing?"

"He is well, I left him sleeping – You were not alarmed that he was missing? But I thought – "

"Hunters read signs, Cas," Sam offered kindly, standing and stretching cramped muscles. "That's what we do. And Dean blazed a pretty clear trail... one that led directly to you."

"Dean knows better than to wander around outside at night unless he's damned sure where he's going and what – or who – is waiting for him there." Bobby added.

"I am relieved we did not worry you," Castiel said stiffly. "My apologies for intruding."

"Wait, Cas!" Sam cried, anticipating Castiel's intent to leave and swiftly crossing the room until he stood before the angel. The hesitation was scarcely noticeable before he drew Castiel into an awkward hug.

"Sam?" Castiel's hands dangled limply at his sides.

"Welcome to the family," Sam said, hugging him a little bit tighter, pleased and relieved when Castiel's arms rose to hug him back.

"Sam?" Castiel repeated, his blue eyes comically wide as Sam set him free and stepped away.

"You missed a spot," Sam teased, the almost echo of Dean's words bringing a warm smile to the hunter's face. "Here..." He lightly touched a finger to Castiel's neck. "That's one hell of a hickey. I've always said Dean has a big mouth."

"I won't ask how the honeymoon's going," Bobby drawled, wheeling himself out from behind the desk. "I'm curious where you buggered off to, though. Hope you two eloped somewhere nice."

"Tahiti," Castiel murmured absentmindedly, clearly distracted and distressed by the sight of Bobby in a wheelchair. "You are injured. Let me – "

"First things first," Bobby growled, intercepting Castiel's hand, and gripping it tight, "You ever hurt that boy, and I promise I'll hurt you. We clear?"

"Yes, sir," Castiel said humbly.

Bobby nodded and released the angel's hand. "You go ahead then, son. I'd be mighty grateful for a little of that healing mojo of yours."

* * *

Dean woke to the sound of waves lapping at the shore and the heavenly scent of coffee and waffles.

"From Belgium, I presume?" he queried, peering at a platter of golden, crisp cakes dusted with confectioner's sugar.

"Of course," Castiel confirmed, setting an artfully arranged tray on a little side table. "Maple syrup from Canada, coffee from Brazil, fresh strawberries from Baguio..."

"You've been a busy little angel."

"I have indeed." Castiel smiled and leaned over to accept Dean's kiss.

"Breakfast will get cold," he murmured as the kiss deepened and Dean tugged him down to lie beside him on the bed.

"We'll reheat it later," Dean said, nibbling his way down the angel's neck, nimble fingers unbuttoning his shirt and pushing the cloth aside.

If Castiel had any further arguments to offer, he kept them to himself.

* * *

It was three days before they ventured from their cozy love nest and set foot outside. The white sand was just as soft and warm beneath Dean's bare feet as he had imagined it would be. A gentle breeze caressed his face, and his nose twitched, trying to catalogue the tantalizing, unfamiliar scents it carried. As for the sea... A solemn surf lapped relentlessly at the shore, the faintest trace of white caps bobbing now and then on water such a pure shade of blue that it almost hurt the eyes. A blue that seemed so achingly familiar it made his heart beat faster, made his breath catch in his throat...

Dean's glance slid from the horizon to his companion, tracing the full length of his body as the naked angel reclined on the blanket they had spread: torso propped up on both elbows, knees bent, feet stretched out past the blanket's edge, toes curled in the sparkling sand. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back to let the sun caress his face.

_Paradise,_ Dean thought contentedly. _Our own little Garden of Eden. Just Cas and me. Adam and... Adam._ He snorted, the huff of amusement causing Castiel to turn his head and open his eyes.

And there it was, the answer to the not so mysterious mystery: a calm, clear blue ocean of unending love.

"Dean?" Castiel queried, tilting his head to one side.

"Thank you," Dean whispered, scooting across the narrow space that separated them until their hips touched. He gently cupped the angel's face, a thumb stroking his stubbled jaw. "Thank you for saving me."

"Dean..."

"I don't just mean from Hell," Dean murmured. "I mean thank you for saving me every day. For giving me a reason to live... a reason to believe."

"Dean!" Castiel said, eyes snapping shut and his head helplessly falling back towards the blanket as Dean's warm lips effectively silenced his cry...

* * *

Dean used the resort phone to call home on the tenth day of his tropical vacation. Castiel had flapped off in search of the perfect dinner, his attempts to expose Dean to fine cuisine touchingly obvious, his intent to improve the human's diet clear. Dean used Castiel's absence to his advantage, hoping that the angel would not return until he finished his conversation with Sam – or at least the portion of the conversation that he wished to remain hidden from his lover. To that end, he firmly squashed Sam's excited greeting and whispered his instructions into the receiver as quickly as he could to be sure they would not coincide with Castiel's return.

That accomplished, he settled back in a comfy armchair and quietly listened as Sam's excited questions flooded from the phone, inserting answers he was not sure his brother really took the time to hear.

_Yes, he was happy._

_Yes, he missed Sam too._

_Yes, Cas was treating him well – spoiling him rotten, more like._

_No, he didn't know when they'd be back. Soon. Probably. Maybe._

Castiel arrived in a flutter of invisible wings seven minutes into the conversation.

_Sam,_ Dean mouthed in response to the angel's raised eyebrow.

"No," he told his brother. "And yes, I will. Give my regards to Bobby. Love ya, Sam."

Dean's eyes were wet when he looked up from carefully returning the phone to its cradle.

"Are you homesick, Dean?" Castiel murmured, gently kissing the tears away before they could fall.

"No," Dean said. "Yes. I don't know. Sam's thinking of going on a hunt... alone..."

"We can be there in seconds, if you wish."

"No... I'm not quite ready to go back... Soon, though, Cas. A few more days." Dean smiled. "I need to find a camera. Samantha wants to make us a honeymoon photo album."

"I don't suppose clothing is optional?" Castiel said, shrugging out of his trench coat and removing his tie. Looping the narrow strip of blue cloth around Dean's neck, he tugged until the hunter stepped into the circle of his arms.

"It could be," Dean teased. "If I make us a private album and you hide it in another dimension."

* * *

It was as they were preparing to leave their island paradise that Dean asked the question Castiel had hoped he would never think to ask.

"Are you happy, Cas?" Dean said, looking up from sorting through the tiny pile of treasures they had accumulated during their stay: a vial of white sand, several unusual seashells, a piece of broken glass polished by the restless surf into an almost perfectly shaped blue heart... He freed the memory card from a camera he had borrowed and slipped it in his pocket for safekeeping. The camera he would return to the shop.

_Sonofabitch,_ Dean thought bemusedly, _Cas's goody two-shoes ways are rubbing off on me._

The smile he turned on Castiel was warm and open, love shimmering in his eyes and joy radiating from his body in palpable waves.

Castiel stared Dean straight in the eye and for the first – and, he hoped, the last – time broke his solemn vow to his lover to always answer his questions honestly. "Yes," he said.

* * *

It wasn't quite a lie. It wasn't quite the truth, either. Castiel wasn't happy... but neither was he unhappy. That was the problem. He wasn't really anything at all. He just... was.

It was a most unsettling conundrum, and a startlingly human reaction for an angel to have: he had been given everything he'd ever wanted... and he wanted more? Unthinkable. And yet...

_I want to fall,_ his heart cried. _Dear Father above, how I want to fall..._

It became an obsession.

Each time Dean lay sleeping beside him, Castiel remembered how it had felt to nestle close beside him when he was fully human, how the rhythm of their bodies became perfectly synchronized as they both drifted into slumber. He longed to dream of green eyes and wake to find them smiling back at him. He wanted to taste a new food for the first time... be kissed golden by the sun... shiver as he slipped between cool bed sheets... be warmed by Dean's welcoming arms...

Dean remained blissfully oblivious to Castiel's secret longings.

The angel would have it no other way. Dean Winchester had known very little happiness in his life. That Castiel, Angel of the Lord, made him happy was a miracle Castiel did not see fit to question.

_It is enough that he is happy,_ he told himself.

That was the second lie.


	16. The Way, the Truth and the Life

It was hard saying goodbye to Paradise. Dean had a whole new respect for Adam and Eve finding themselves forced from the Blessed Realm into a life of hardship... but at least he was leaving of his own free will, and with an angel by his side. An angel who loved him.

_Cas loves me!_ The joyous thought pulsed through Dean's brain in perfect synchronization with every beat of his heart, every breath he took.

He was doing it again. He knew he was. Dean's gaze lifted from the duffle he had just finished packing and locked on the mirror above the dresser. Yes. He was definitely grinning like a loon.

But, then, he couldn't seem to stop smiling. Couldn't help but remember that every time their eyes met, Castiel smiled in reply, sometimes the merest quirk or slight upturn of his lips, but other times...

Ah... other times...

Dean's breath caught in his throat as he envisioned Castiel's full-fledged smile: eyes crinkled at the corners, white teeth flashing and then – oh, God! – if Dean was lucky, dimples, honest to god dimples, would appear!

_Guh..._ Dean thought, trying not to drool at the vivid memory. _Who knew ol' poker face had it in him?_

If Dean hadn't already fallen in love with his angel, that smile would have easily pushed him over the edge. As it was, he was a total goner. Head over heels in love. Sappy and girly be damned if it meant he felt this way. He had never thought he would. Never thought he _could_.

Never had Dean been more glad to be proven wrong. Good things _did_ happen. Against all odds they had happened to him.

Which probably meant the universe was gearing itself up to kick him in the nuts. It was a well proven fact that Winchester luck could only hold good so long... and, now that he thought about it, it had been a few days since he'd last seen that blinding smile. Was Cas already tiring of him? Not that he didn't smile, freely and often. But, sometimes, it didn't quite reach those beautiful blue eyes. Sometimes, he seemed almost... sad.

Dean's own smile faded as he turned a considering stare on his angel. Castiel was rifling through the little bookcase over by the French doors, a curious finger trailing across the spines of the books, lips silently mouthing the titles. Aimlessly, he pulled out a tattered-looking paperback and stood staring at the gaudy illustration on the cover: a busty damsel clasped in a Fabio wannabe's muscled arms. Castiel snorted softly and opened the novel to a random page.

"Cas?" Dean whispered, his voice quivering with an overflow of emotion.

Castiel glanced his way, the book he held in his hands instantly forgotten. His head tilted inquiringly.

"Cas," Dean repeated, and suddenly found himself bereft of further words.

It didn't matter. Talking was over-rated. Too often in the past, words had only gotten in the way. Once upon a time, Castiel had asked him to have faith. He couldn't then, but now... ah, now he could. He would believe the impossible... because it was true. It had to be true.

_Cas loves me. Cas loves me._

Dean's smile returned with the brilliance of a star gone supernova.

Castiel tossed the book to the table and crossed the room in several giant strides, his trench coat swirling around his legs, hiding the sinuous shift of slim hips that Dean now knew so intimately.

"Dean," he murmured, his lips unerringly seeking the hunter's.

Dean's arms wrapped around the angel as he deepened the kiss and tugged his willing lover towards the bed.

_Paradise,_ he thought giddily. _Who needs it?_

* * *

"Dean said they'd be here tonight no later than 6:30," Bobby groused, peering into the oven at a roast that was rapidly passing well-done and approaching incinerated. "They're almost two hours late. I can't imagine what's keeping them."

"Oh, really? Can't you?" Sam's rich chuckle drew a sudden blush to the old hunter's cheeks.

"Shaddup," Bobby growled. "I'm fresh outta brain bleach. I don't want to go there."

"Go where?" Castiel inquired, appearing with a rustle of invisible feathers and a gust of air that blew the hair out of Sam's eyes. A smirking Dean stood at the angel's side, close enough to touch, but nonchalantly not touching.

"Dean!"

The small duffle bag in Dean's hand hit the kitchen floor with a muffled thump as Sam enveloped his brother in a fierce bear hug.

"Whoa there, Sammy. Can't breathe," Dean gasped.

Sam stepped back, leaving his left arm slung around Dean's neck. Casually, he draped his right arm across Castiel's shoulders and drew them both towards a heavily laden table. "Eat first, breathe later," he suggested, and grinned. "Bobby slaughtered a fattened calf in your honour."

"It was a damned sight fatter an hour ago," Bobby muttered. "Thought Air Angel always ran on schedule?"

"My apologies, Bobby," Castiel murmured, and looked as if he genuinely meant it. "Dean... That is, Dean and I... We were... uh... detained. Unavoidably delayed."

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" Sam said blithely as he motioned for the guests of honour to seat themselves.

_"Sam..."_ Dean warned.

Sam grinned unrepentantly. "Ah, come on, Dean," he wheedled. "You gotta give me this one. Just think of all you'd have to say if the shoe were on the other foot."

"Why would Dean put a shoe on the incorrect foot? Even had he attempted to dress himself in the dark, he would have felt a difference in the shoe's curvature." Castiel swivelled in his chair to face Dean. "Or did Sam mean that you might have mistakenly put on my shoe in your haste to get dressed after we made l– ?"

_"Cas!"_ Dean buried his face in both hands. "It's. Just. An. Expression."

"It is a wonder," Castiel sniffed disdainfully, "that you humans manage to communicate at all."

Dean's head lifted and he stared intently into the angel's eyes, a deep furrow creasing his brow.

"Ahhh." Castiel's expression softened. "There. See. Now _that_ I understood."

"What did he say?" Sam asked, trying his best not to laugh and spill the plates of food he was carrying.

"Shut up, Cas," Castiel and Dean replied in unison.

* * *

The meal consumed, the table cleared, dishes washed and dried, Sam and Dean drifted to the study, drinks in hand, leaving Castiel and Bobby to finish putting everything back in cupboards and drawers, the low rumble of their voices a soothing background noise. It sounded like a pretty animated discussion, English and Latin interspersed with Enochian. Dean smiled, glad to hear his lover and surrogate father conversing so easily. It was good to be back home.

"You look good, Dean," Sam said, tipping his glass back and draining the final few drops. "The tan suits you."

"Angel mojo." Dean grinned, holding his arms out to better display their burnished glow. "You know I just burn and freckle."

"So, what, you're one giant freckle now?"

"Something like that," Dean admitted, a sly smile flitting across his face. "Let's just say I don't have a tan line."

"That's more than I needed to know," Sam gave a mock shiver.

"A tan does not mean the freckles are gone," Castiel said, following Bobby into the study and settling himself on the sofa beside Dean. "I assure you, they are all still there. I have counted them many times."

"You've... counted them?" Sam said, vastly amused. "And what's the tally, Cas?"

"On his face alone, one thousand one hundred forty-five. In total, if you include the ones on his – "

Dean bumped his elbow into Castiel's ribs. Hard. "A lot," he said firmly. "I have a lot of freckles. Let's leave it at that. And you, Cas, obviously have far too much time on your hands."

"This is true," Castiel admitted thoughtfully. "You do spend a lot of time sleeping, Dean."

"So you fill the hours freckle counting?" Dean's jaw dropped. "Staring at me? That's... that's kinda creepy. I'm sure you could put that time to better use."

"But then I would not be there if you should awaken and feel the urge to – "

"If you say 'copulate', you're spending the night on the sofa," Dean warned.

Castiel's mouth snapped shut.

And Sam fell out of his chair, laughing.

* * *

It was long after midnight when the easy chatter which had filled the room thinned to sporadic comments, and the occasional yawn.

"Bedtime," Bobby announced. "You idjits stay up if you want, but I have a hunt planned for tomorrow. I'm off to bed."

"What are you hunting, Bobby?" Dean said. "Need a hand?"

"It's just a simple clean up of a vamp nest out Mitchell way, but you're more than welcome to tag along."

"Sounds like fun." Dean rubbed his palms together. "It'll feel good to get back in the game."

"Game starts at sunrise," Bobby advised. "And I ain't hangin' around while you lollygag in bed."

"In that case..." Dean stood and extended a hand to Castiel. "We'd best get our lollygagging done tonight."

Castiel's eyes slowly tracked from Dean's hand to Sam to Bobby and back to Dean's hand again.

"Coming, Cas?" Dean said softly.

Castiel tangled his fingers with Dean's and rose to his feet. "Yes," he said, shooting a sideways glance at an open-mouthed Sam and Bobby. "Goodnight?" he offered awkwardly.

"G'nite, Cas. G'nite, Dean," Sam replied. Bobby nodded, and then both men watched in silence as Dean detoured to pick up the dropped duffle bag before he and Castiel climbed the stairs, still hand in hand.

"You didn't have to do that," Castiel whispered as the bedroom door closed behind them with a surprisingly loud snick of the latch. A slight tug on their linked hands brought Dean around closer until his breath caressed the angel's face.

"Yes. I did," Dean stated firmly. "We're together now, Cas. No sneaking around. No pretending we're just good buddies. I love you and I don't care who knows it. I don't care if they know what we do."

"Dean. Dean I – "

"You're mine," Dean growled. "God Himself gave us His blessings. How's that go? _What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."_

_"And they twain shall be one flesh: so then they are no more twain, but one,"_ Castiel's deep voice rumbled.

_"Forsaking all others,"_ Dean purred, twining himself around his angel.

_"I will love you and honour you all the days of my life,"_ Castiel murmured, and pressed his lips to the human's.

"Whoa..." Dean whispered in the brief pause between one kiss ending and the next beginning. "I think we just got hitched, Cas."

"No, Dean," Castiel said. "We simply made manifest our vows. The actual marriage took place on Motu Tetaraire when we consummated our bond."

"Oh... Well, in that case, I'm really glad I phoned ahead and had Sam make a few arrangements," Dean said hoarsely.

"Arrangements for what?" Castiel inquired without a vestige of real interest, single-mindedly attempting to strip Dean of his clothes as he backed him towards the bed.

"For this," Dean replied, reaching beneath his pillow and pulling out the handful of plastic cards and two engraved silver bands that were waiting there.

Castiel stared at the matching rings and swallowed. "D-Dean?" he stammered.

"I know gold is traditional but, given the life we lead, silver is infinitely more practical. Anyway, it's the thought that counts." Dean gently gathered the angel's left hand in both of his. "I hope it fits," he fretted, carefully sliding the band home and smilingly handing its mate over to Castiel so the bemused angel could slip it on Dean's finger in turn. And then he pressed the little stack of cards into Castiel's right hand.

"What is this?" Castiel asked, sparing the cards a cursory glance. "A driver's license? Credit cards? Dean, I don't understand. I already have a more than adequate supply of fake documentation."

"Look again," Dean said quietly. "This lot is as real as we could make it."

Castiel's eyes dropped back down to the cards. His lips shaped the words _Castiel Winchester,_ but not a sound escaped save a breathless little _"Oh..."_

Dean's smile widened.

"Oh," Castiel repeated more loudly. And a third time: "Oh..." Reverently, he placed his new identity on the nightstand, reaching out with both hands to cradle Dean's face between his warm palms. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you... beloved."

Dean's fingers teased the buttons open on Castiel's shirt and his hand slipped inside until it came to rest on his handprint. In reply, Castiel's hand slid up the sleeve of Dean's T-shirt and firmly locked in place on his mark.

"Care to join me for a little wedded bliss, Mr. Winchester?" Dean grinned and nodded towards the bed.

Castiel's head canted meaningfully towards the thin wall separating Dean's bedroom – their bedroom! – from Sam's and Bobby's rooms.

Dean chuckled and toppled him onto the bed. "They'll just have to cope, won't they?" he said.

Castiel's reply was lost, devoured by a hungry kiss.

* * *

Bobby refused to make eye contact when Dean thundered down the stairs the next morning, precisely twenty minutes before sunrise. Castiel followed closely on his heels, trench coat flapping behind him and his necktie even more askew than usual. Sam glanced up as they entered the kitchen, sharp eyes instantly focusing on the vivid purple bruise decorating Dean's neck. Wisely, he hid his smile behind the newspaper before his brother had time to transfer a defiant glare his way.

Castiel calmly set about pouring coffee for himself and Dean, then crossed the room to refill Sam and Bobby's empty cups.

"Thanks," Bobby muttered. "Hope you aren't expecting a big tip."

"I think Dean has tipping covered," Sam teased. "As to whether or not it's big..."

Bobby choked on his drink. Dean slammed his plate down on the table,

"Really, Sam?" he groaned. _"Really?_ That's how it's gonna be?"

"For the foreseeable future? Yeah. That's how it's gonna be. Do you have any idea how... um... enthusiastic you two were last night?" Sam grimaced, his face scrunching up in a moue of distaste as he recalled sticking fingers in his ears in a vain attempt to muffle his brother and the angel's pornographic moans.

"I did warn you, Dean," Castiel said quietly. "You said they'd just have to cope."

"So this is me, coping." Sam shrugged. "_You_ cope with _that,_ Dean."

Swift strides carried Dean around the table, and Sam flinched in anticipation of a blow that never came. Instead, Dean captured Castiel's face between his hands and deposited a passionate kiss on the surprised angel's parted lips.

"Mmph... mmmm," Castiel said, quickly getting with the program and eagerly responding.

Loud, wet, smacking noises ensued.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Bobby moaned. "Sam, shut the fuck up, will ya?"

_"Me?"_ Sam cried, genuinely outraged. "I'm not the one currently sucking on an angel's tonsils!"

"But you're the one who started it," Bobby sighed. "They were behaving themselves until you opened your big mouth. I can live with my house rattling like a freight train's passing through. I can live with wearing earplugs to bed every night. But I definitely don't need these... visuals. Face it, Sam, Dean comes out on top this time."

"Actually," Castiel said helpfully, "we take turns topping."

Bobby dropped his face into his hands.

"TMI, Cas," Dean chuckled, releasing his lover with an affectionate pat on the trench coat clad ass and seating himself at the table to gulp down his cooling breakfast.

Sam quietly rose from his chair, placed his dirty dishes in the sink, and hastened off to load their gear in the car.

"So..." Bobby said uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. "About those vamps we're going after..."

* * *

Everything that could go wrong on a hunt, did. From the flat tire a few miles down the road, to the embarrassing realization that, in a dyslexic moment, Bobby had written the address down incorrectly. To top it off, instead of finding a den containing two or three vamps, there were closer to three dozen jam-packed in the tiny farmhouse they had appropriated as their own. And instead of being somnolent, complacently relaxed after a busy night of feeding, these vampires were still wide awake. High on the thrill of the stolen blood coursing through their veins, they lost no time in launching a deadly counter-attack when their vigilant sentry sounded the alarm.

_Good thing for Bobby we tagged along,_ Dean had time to think, before he found himself fending off and beheading a vampire intent on tearing out his throat.

A quick glance showed Sam similarly engaged in combat and more than holding his own against a bevy of fang-faced harpies. Bobby's shotgun sounded repeatedly, offering cover as Dean and Sam methodically battled their way across the room. Castiel vanished to the basement, claiming he sensed the presence of injured humans and would see to the vampires holding them prisoner there.

Apparently, that was the break the remaining vampires were waiting for. The disappearance of the powerful angel rallied their flagging spirits and inspired them to a last ditch effort to kill before they were killed.

_I fucking hate vampires,_ Dean thought, taking a giant step forward to meet the headlong rush of two very determined vamps. And that is when his foot slipped in a puddle of blood and he went crashing to his knees. The blade he held went skittering across the floor...

"Dean!" Sam shouted, risking his own well-being in favour of coming to his brother's aid.

Dean rolled to his left, retrieving his weapon and scrambling to his feet in time to dispatch the grinning vampire swaggering its way up to him. From the corner of his eye he saw several more vampires pouring up from the basement in a frantic bid to escape an angel's wrath.

"Cas!" he shouted, "Cas! Get your feathery ass back up here. We're outnumbered!"

Just as the angel appeared in answer to the summons, the largest of the vampires, a burly mountain of a man, came up behind Dean and grabbed him for use as a shield against the other hunters' persistent attacks. A cold, dead tongue flicked up the side of the Dean's neck, dancing teasingly over his carotid artery.

"Mmm," the goliath sighed, crushing the human between his massive paws. "You taste as pretty as you look."

Dean elbowed him in the gut to no avail.

A sudden, deafening crack of thunder failed to mask the growl that ripped its way from Castiel's throat. Dean thought he saw the flickering shadow of giant, ebony wings unfurling – or maybe he was simply blacking out from asphyxiation. In either case, the next thing he knew, he was drenched in copious amounts of vampire blood and clutched to a berserk angel's heaving breast. A tiny burble of laughter escaped Dean's lips as his mind flashed back to the lurid cover of the novel Castiel had perused before they left Tahiti. _Their love defied Heaven and Hell,_ he silently chortled, his shoulders shaking with either an adrenaline rush, or a pending attack of hysteria at being cast in the role of the girl.

The remaining vampires shot disbelieving looks at their disintegrated comrade and unanimously decided discretion was the better part of valour. As one, they turned tail and ran, scattering in several different directions. Explosive little _poofs_ and further spatters of body bits followed in the wake of Castiel's relentless glare. Not a vampire survived the massacre.

Sam swiped a hand across his face, dislodging the worst of the grisly fallout. "Uh..." he offered, obviously at a loss for words. "Uh... Cas?"

Castiel growled again, and Sam held up his empty hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

"Whoa there, tiger," Dean murmured, placing his left palm flat against Castiel's chest.

Castiel blinked and his overly bright gaze dimmed to its usual brilliant shade of blue as he transferred his stare to Dean. The hunter could feel Castiel vibrating under his touch. An almost audible hum tickled his ears, making his fingertips tingle and the scar on his arm pulse in rhythm with the angel's racing heartbeat. Without breaking eye contact, Dean fished in his pocket for the car keys and tossed them in the general direction of his brother.

"We'll meet you back at Bobby's," he said, his voice almost as gravel-toned as Castiel's. "Take your time getting there."

With a final snarl of agreement and a furious snap of invisible wings, they were gone.

* * *

Dean's brain barely had time to register the fact that they were upstairs at Bobby's before the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he was unceremoniously tumbled to the mattress. Castiel followed him down, covering Dean with his body, the trench coat billowing over them both, creating a cozy little nest for two. Castiel's tongue licked wide swaths up Dean's neck, eradicating any lingering trace of the vampire's saliva, his teeth nipping, lips suckling, leaving a trail of red marks in their wake.

"Mine," Castiel growled. "Mine. He had no right... no right..."

Dean didn't bother to search for reassuring words. Instinctively, he knew a better way. His hand slipped to its mark on the angel's arm. Castiel mirrored the motion, his fingers gripping his mark in return, biting deep into Dean's flesh as if trying to worm their way through the layers of cloth separating them. Castiel flung his head back in obvious rapture as they connected, their bond amplifying every sensation; each touch, each kiss compounding their desire.

Dean..." Castel moaned, the name rumbling from his lips as an echoing grumble sounded outside in a clear, blue sky. "Dean," he repeated, as the air around his shoulders shivered and shifted.

Dean stared in awe as Castiel's wings burst forth. An accompanying crack of thunder and a sudden explosive cascade of breaking glass resounded throughout the house.

Dean's hands sought the dark mass of feathers that caressed his suddenly nude body, tickled his nose, and even found their way into his gaping mouth. An equally naked angel pressed against the human, moaning and writhing as Dean's fingers tentatively explored the wonder of his wings.

"Yes," he panted. "Touch me. Yes! _There!"_

Dean's fingers tightened, anchoring themselves to where the wings were thickest: at the base, where they erupted from Castiel's back.

"I want you," Castiel whispered, the blue in his eyes intensifying with each stroke Dean gave; each ruffle of feathers making his wings fan and flex, his breathing grow shallower, his pulse quicken. "Need you. Need to..."

"Yes," Dean murmured. "Yes, Cas. Yes."

A high, keening note escaped Castiel and the bedroom window shattered: raining down onto the well-worn carpet, bright diamonds of broken glass sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Dean's hands slid limply down from Castiel's wings, falling open on the bed, palms up-turned as if in supplication. Castiel's fingers dug more harshly into Dean's unresisting shoulders, forcing him deeper into the mattress as ruthless hands slid further down the human's splayed arms until they clutched each wrist in an iron-tight grip. The bed frame rattled in protest, small items on the nightstand wobbling madly before they went crashing to the floor.

Wrapped in a haze of pleasure, Dean heard more than felt the crack of breaking bone as both wrists snapped under the pressure of Castiel's unleashed angelic strength. His delayed howl of pain mixed with Castiel's cry of ecstasy as the angel succumbed to his climax, his triumphant scream of release preceded by the rushed and breathless command: "Dean! Close your eyes!"

Green eyes slammed shut just as Castiel's voice achieved a note too pure, too true, to be safely perceived by a mortal. Slivers of incandescent white light seeped in under tightly closed lids, detonating answering starbursts deep in the human's brain. Dean bit his own kiss-swollen bottom lip until it bled, matching trickles of blood dribbling from his ears to stain the pillowcase as Castiel finally ceased his unearthly cry and collapsed upon Dean's chest, his wings buffeting the room, sweeping the few remaining items off the nightstand before knocking the table itself over on its side.

"Mmgh," Dean offered in protest, breath crushed from his straining lungs, the taste of copper and ozone heavy on his tongue. A sudden decompression hit his lungs as if every molecule of oxygen had been sucked from the room. Dean fought the feeling, his chest heaving in great gulps of air. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. He felt blackness gnaw at the edges of his vision, the blue of Castiel's eyes the only colour left in the universe.

"Cas!" Dean gasped, and came harder than he could ever remember coming in his entire life.

Dean's pride denied he was doing anything so cliché as passing out from a mind-blowing orgasm but, nonetheless, a manly swoon sent him plummeting towards oblivion, Castiel's frantic cry of "Dean? Dean?" fading into a silent well of ink-black nothingness.

* * *

_The blue is back,_ was Dean's first thought upon regaining consciousness. Slowly, the rest of Castiel's worried face swam into view, accompanied by a flood of aches and pains that had cheerfully been ignored in the throes of passion. His wrists throbbed, his ribs protested his every breath. Blood smeared Castiel's trembling hands when he slid them from Dean's poor, abused ears to caress his cheeks.

"I could have killed you," Castiel whispered, tears flooding his eyes. One lonely drop trickled down his cheek, dripped off his chin and splattered onto Dean's face. "Dear Holy Father," he moaned. "Forgive me, Dean. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"Hey," Dean wheezed. "You beat the living shit out of me once upon a time. Remember? I think I can forgive a little love tap this time 'round."

"That was different." Gentle hands stroked his ears, his chest, his wrists, leaving a healing warmth in their wake as bones and torn tissue mended "That was... before. That was... controlled. Deliberately meted out. But this, oh this..." Castiel's sandpaper-rough voice trailed into silence, all the love and remorse he felt clearly written on his face.

"But this?" Dean prompted, when it became apparent the angel wasn't going to continue.

"I could have killed you," Castiel repeated numbly, staring at his hands as if destruction was all they knew.

"But what a way to go," Dean quipped.

"It's not funny, Dean!" Castiel shouted, his patience strained past all limits. "Don't you understand? I lost control. I – an angel – lost control. I lost myself in you... and I almost lost you in the process."

"It's all right," Dean soothed. "I know you'd bring me back."

"It is not _all right,"_ Castiel said fiercely. "This should never have happened. I should never have allowed it to happen."

"Look, Cas, don't beat yourself up. Okay? There are two of us in this bed. You didn't hear me say stop, now did you?"

"I'm not sure I could have stopped had you requested it of me. I – I'm sorry, Dean, but I have to go. I have to think about this."

"Go? No, Cas, don't do that. We can talk it out. We can – "

But Dean was speaking to an empty room. The angel had already fled.

"Fuck," Dean said softly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

That seemed to sum up the situation nicely.


	17. A Light Unto My Path

"What the hell happened here?" Sam wondered aloud as the Impala rumbled to a halt in its usual parking space in the scrapyard. Not a window in Bobby's house was intact: many simply cracked, but others blasted out entirely, jagged fragments of glass barely hanging onto their wooden frames.

"At a guess? Cas." Bobby shrugged. "Think it's safe to go in there yet?"

Both men listened, but heard nothing to indicate their return was premature. The freshly nailed up boards covering the most severely damaged windows gave the house a sinister, unwelcoming appearance in the waning light. Quite frankly, Sam would far rather have tackled another vampire lair. At least that was a known danger. God only knew what waited for them inside... But his brother was in there, and that knowledge was enough to draw Sam's reluctant feet up the porch stairs.

Dean didn't look up when Sam and Bobby entered the kitchen. The expression on his face was as shattered as the glass he was meticulously gathering into a pile. Without saying a word, Sam grabbed a spare broom and set about helping his brother tidy up. Muttering under his breath, Bobby spun on his heel and headed back out the door. Looked like they'd be needing a shit load of replacement lightbulbs, and a few sheets of plywood would probably come in handy too. The growl of his old truck's engine faded into the distance, leaving only the rhythmic _swoosh_ of the brooms to fill the remaining silence.

It was Dean who discovered Castiel's trench coat stuffed in a trashcan. The dustpan of debris he held in his hand went crashing to the floor as a sound too inhuman to be formed by human vocal chords slipped from his lips.

"Dean?" Sam's warm hand anchored his brother in a room suddenly tilting dangerously from side to side, the corners of Dean's vision blackening. "Dean!" Sam repeated, and shook him slightly.

The darkness receded. Dean's hand was steady as he reached into the trashcan and retrieved the crumpled garment. "It's okay, Sam," he said. "I'm okay. I'm just a bit tired." Carefully, he brushed bits and pieces of garbage from the trench coat and hung it on a hook by the kitchen door. "Let's finish up and call it a day. I don't know about you, but I could really use a beer."

* * *

Tahiti was too full of memories. Castiel stood at the water's edge while waves teased at his bare feet, threatening to pull him under with the image of Dean nestled in his arms, laughing softly as the angel's hands tickled their way across the human's ribs, reading the script written beneath the flesh: words of love, words of protection... words with an intent he had not understood at the time that he had placed them there. Words that meant everything to him now.

Everest was too empty. The moon shone down upon the snow-draped rocky peaks, a sharp wind lifting wisps of ice crystals and swirling them in a mist that rose to block the stars. This was what a life without Dean would be. Lonely. Devoid of warmth.

Beijing was too crowded. Paris and Los Angeles were too loud, too bright. The endless dunes of the Sahara were too much of a reminder of making love on the white sands of Motu Tetaraire. The Amazon Rainforest was a poor substitute for all the luscious shades of green to be found in Dean's eyes.

There was no escaping Dean. He wasn't sure why he even felt the need to try. All he knew was that he needed answers, and there were none to be found. There were only questions. Questions he scarcely had the words to formulate. And there was no one he could turn to. He would not go crawling back to Heaven. His brothers would not understand and, while his Father might offer a sympathetic ear, surely He had better things to do.

But, perhaps, there was one place he could go...

* * *

Father Desmond was seated by the fireplace, the cheery warmth of a vigorous blaze luring him away from the sermon he was supposed to be composing. His head had nodded its way almost down to his chest by the time a sharp knock roused him from his slumber. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he shuffled down the hallway and peered through the old oak door's frosted glass. Even after flicking on the porch light, he was unable to discern any more than that his unexpected visitor was male and wearing only a dark suit in spite of plummeting temperatures and a few swirling flakes of snow, harbingers of the storm front that was sweeping down from the north.

"Castiel!" the old priest exclaimed as he finally fumbled open the door. He held out his right hand and waited with patient amusement while Castiel recalled the custom and then responded appropriately.

"Come in, come in," he urged. "Please, have a seat while I go put on the kettle. Would you prefer coffee or tea?"

"Whatever you are having will be acceptable," Castiel replied, settling himself in his usual chair. He tilted his head as a quick pitter-patter of footsteps sounded overhead. Within seconds, a grey streak of fur tore down the stairs and bounded into his lap. "Milly." Castiel smiled, bending down to bump heads with an ecstatically purring cat, his fingers affectionately combing through her thick fur.

Father Desmond chuckled over the pretty picture the two made as he re-entered the room. "She was inconsolable when you left," he said, placing a generously laden tea tray on the coffee table. "She still sleeps in your old room. And I'm afraid she stole one of your socks as a keepsake."

"I'm sorry, Milly," Castiel said, "but I had to leave. It was time for me to go home."

Father Desmond's glance fell to the wedding band on Castiel's finger as he watched his guest's gentle hands hold and stroke Milly. "I see circumstances have changed since last I saw you, my son," he said, and beamed. "Congratulations are in order."

"Yes... Thank you..."

Father Desmond's smile faded as he took in the droop of Castiel's mouth, the slump of his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he said kindly, laying his hand over the angel's and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Is the marriage not a happy one? Is it a marriage of convenience rather than love?"

Castiel's eyes opened impossibly wide as his startled gaze flew to the priest. "It is love," he said sharply. "There is no doubt of that. I have never known such love."

"Then I don't understand your unhappiness, Castiel. If you truly love your wife, and she loves you..."

"He," Castiel corrected.

"Ah..." Father Desmond sighed. "I see. I take it your families do not approve?"

"No, we have their blessings. His brother's. My... father's."

"Perhaps, instead of playing Twenty Questions, you should just tell me the problem," Father Desmond suggested. Taking his seat, he reached out to pour two fragrant cups of tea and offered one to Castiel.

"_I_ am the problem," Castiel confessed, cup rattling in its saucer as he set the drink aside on a little end table. "I... hurt him."

"Physically?"

"Yes. It was... an accident. But I could have killed him. I am afraid, Father."

"Afraid of hurting him again?"

"Yes," Castiel whispered. "He has forgiven me. But how do I forgive myself? How can I know for a fact that I won't hurt him again?"

"You can't know," the priest said bluntly. "No more than he can know that he won't ever hurt you. All you can do is be the best person you can be – and I know, Castiel, I know that you are a good man. I have a congregation and a school full of children who would agree with me in that regard. They still sing your praises and wish you would return to us. But, no matter how good you are, no one is perfect, my son. No one should expect you to be – not even you. So don't be so hard on yourself. Take each day as it comes. Do the right thing. Forgive his trespasses, and accept that he forgives you yours."

"You make it all sound so simple."

"It is simple. If you love him – if he loves you – what more do you need to know? The rest just flows from that. As the Good Book says: 'Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.'"

"Love never ends..." Castiel murmured.

"No," Father Desmond agreed sadly. "It doesn't. Not a day passes that I don't think of Hannah and wonder what my life would have been had God not called her home all those years ago. The children we never had. The joys. The sorrows." The priest turned tear-filled eyes on the angel. "Don't let a day go by. Not an hour, not a minute. Love never ends, but 'As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.' Hannah and I will be together in Heaven – I know we will – but she isn't here now, and your husband is. Don't waste the gift God has given you."

"Thank you," Castiel said, resting his hand on the old priest's arm, sending wave after wave of healing and affection through the seemingly casual touch. "You have greatly eased my mind. I will keep you and Hannah in my prayers."

"And I will pray for you and... uh?"

"Dean."

"Dean. The young man who was so worried about you. I wondered at the time..." Father Desmond smiled. "You make a strikingly handsome couple."

"Thank you," Castiel repeated, rising to his feet and regretfully depositing Milly in the chair. "I must go. Dean will be gravely concerned about my absence. I left... rather abruptly."

"But you haven't touched your tea."

"Another time." Castiel awkwardly held out his right hand, but Father Desmond ignored it and wrapped him in a warm hug instead.

"_Any_ time," he offered, patting the angel's back before setting him free. "I mean it, Castiel. You and Dean are always welcome here."

"Thank you," Castiel said yet again, and allowed his host to escort him to the front door, the priest's supportive hand lightly splayed on his shoulder. He had just crossed the street and was about to turn down a dark alleyway and discreetly flap his way back to Dean when he heard a frantic cry of "No!" and the sharp squeal of car brakes.

_"No!"_ Father Desmond's shout rang out a second time.

Castiel turned to see the old priest running down the sidewalk in sock-clad feet, shoes forgotten in his haste to get to –

"No," Castiel moaned.

Father Desmond flung himself to his knees and stretched a trembling hand out to the bloodied, grey fur protruding from under a car wheel. "Milly," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," the driver sobbed hysterically. "She came out of nowhere. I didn't see her until it was too late. I tried – I tried to stop, but – "

"It's all right," Castiel said, pressing two fingers against the woman's temple. "Sit in your car for a minute while I see to Milly. Then you can be on your way. Milly is fine. You missed her."

The woman nodded, a calm but vacant look in her eyes as she returned to her car, closed the door, and sat quietly behind the wheel.

"Milly is not _fine_," Father Desmond hissed, tears flowing down his cheeks.

"She will be." Castiel nudged the priest aside and with his left hand casually lifted the car the few necessary inches. His right hand scooped up Milly's body and he smoothly lowered the car and motioned for the woman to drive away. "Inside," he ordered, his gaze sweeping over a curious multitude of open doors and twitching curtains which spilled their golden light into the darkness. "There are too many eyes upon us here."

Father Desmond trudged wearily in his wake as Castiel cradled Milly to his breast and strode purposefully back into the house. By the time the priest caught up with him, Castiel was already seated in a chair, his gaze firmly fixed upon Milly.

"We should take her to the vet," Father Desmond said, knowing full well it would be a waste of time. Milly, his beloved Milly, was dead.

Castiel offered no reply. Instead, a bright white glow emanated from his hands, tendrils of lightning snaking their way around Milly until she too was enveloped by the light.

Father Desmond stumbled backwards until the back of his knees hit the edge of his sofa and he sat down with an audible "oof." And, then, he simply held his breath and stared in open-mouthed awe as Castiel's eyes fluttered shut, traces of brilliant light seeping out from beneath the closed lids. Though Castiel's lips remained tightly pressed together, the echo of a thousand whispering voices, in tongues so ancient many no longer had a name, lingered in the air, teasing at the old priest's brain with their praises of God and promises of redemption and life eternal at His side.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. Simultaneously with its disappearance, Castiel opened his eyes as Milly stirred in his grasp and turned her head to lick his hand. Within moments, she had lithely risen to her feet and was contentedly purring as she kneaded her paws against Castiel's thigh.

"Who – w-what are you?" Father Desmond stammered.

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Castiel replied, burying his face in Milly's once again clean and silky fur. "You must not go outside," he chided softly. "It is not safe, little one. You must never follow me there again."

Milly meowed, as if in agreement, and leaped to the floor, ambling off towards the kitchen in search of her food dish.

"You are injured," Castiel said quietly, and gestured to the blood staining one of the old priest's wet and dirty socks.

"I think I stepped on a piece of broken glass," Father Desmond mumbled.

"If you would allow me..."

The priest nodded, and Castiel knelt on the floor before him. A gentle touch of the angel's hand, and the pain was gone. Father Desmond removed his ruined sock and stared at the unmarked flesh that lay beneath it.

"When you said your father approved your union..."

"I meant Our Heavenly Father."

"But... but... you're an angel..."

"I was an angel. I fell. With Dean's help, I became an angel again. And now..." Castiel stood and paced a few steps across the room, staring hard at a framed image of Jesus on the cross. "And now I wish to fall again. I want to walk amongst you. Be human. Feel the full weight of time's passing. "

"Why in Heaven's name would you want that?"

"Being an angel is no longer enough for me," Castiel said slowly. "Dean taught me to think for myself. He taught me to want... to hope... to need... to love. I've been lying to him, Father. Lying to myself. Pretending to be content that my Grace has been reinstated. But that isn't true. The only heaven I desire is being with Dean. In this life. In the next."

"Have you spoken of this to him? Does he know how you feel?"

The angel's mind instantly flashed back to a little diner where they had stopped for refreshment on their journey to Mitchell...

* * *

_The one thing Castiel hadn't counted on was their profound bond betraying him. When Dean handed him a strawberry milkshake with a sly smile and a provocative wink, he took an eager sip, his heart plummeting as he discovered a distinct lack of the usual thrill. The drink was mildly enjoyable. It was not, however, an explosion of texture and flavour in his mouth. It was simply nourishment he did not need._

_Not a trace of disappointment showed on his stoic face, but Dean suddenly abandoned his comfortable slouch and sat bolt upright in his chair. His right hand shot to his left shoulder, his fingers curling protectively across the scar buried beneath several layers of fabric._

_"What was that?" he said, sharp gaze pinning the angel's eyes._

_Castiel remained silent and fought the urge to look away._

_"Brain freeze?" Sam suggested, trying to defuse the obvious tension which had fallen over the booth._

_Dean's eyes narrowed but, after a few more seconds of staring, he dropped both his eyes and his hand and returned full attention to his burger..._

* * *

"He suspects something is wrong. But it's nothing he wants to hear. He's happy, Father. He has known very little happiness in his life. If I fall, I am afraid that he will fall with me. Fall into a darkness that I will not be able to save him from this time. I cannot risk losing him... breaking his heart..."

"I think that is exactly the risk you're taking," Father Desmond said. "From what I've seen of the man, he's not the type to break easily. Nor is he the type to suffer fools or liars. And forgive me for being blunt, Castiel, but you are being both of those things. You want to be his equal, but you're denying him his say in a matter that deeply concerns him as well as you. You still see yourself as his guardian angel. You want to protect him from any danger – including yourself. Well, equality is a two way street. So is honesty. So is love."

Milly sauntered back into the room and immediately resumed her place on Castiel's lap, gazing up at him adoringly. The angel bowed his head and petted her fondly.

"You are not as I expected an angel to be," Father Desmond admitted hesitantly.

Castiel's lips quirked in a smile. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Disappoint? Oh, Castiel, no. You performed a miracle today with Milly. And you've restored my faith in humanity. That an angel would choose to be human gives me hope that man might strive harder to reach for Heaven. There is a balance to the universe. All things are possible."

"I have certainly seen impossible things happen."

"Don't push Dean away from your truth," Father Desmond murmured. "Let him know how you feel... or you could lose him."

"I do not think I could survive that loss."

"Then you know what you have to do."

"Yes," Castiel said, standing up and gently transferring Milly over to the old priest's arms. "I do."

A rustle of invisible wings filled the tiny room, and Castiel was gone.


	18. Until the Day Break

In the end, Dean had three beers. Sam and Bobby kept him company at the cluttered kitchen table, Bobby complaining all the while of the cold draft making its way through improperly sealed cracks in the broken windows.

Bobby's ancient furnace had given up the ghost hours ago. "No sense tryin' to heat the great outdoors," he snarled, before throwing the breaker switch and putting the furnace's laboured moans to rest. "We'll just have to make do and hope the water pipes don't freeze."

A sudden howl of wind rattled the building, as if mocking Bobby's words as a vain hope at best.

"Couldn't have picked a worse night to smash up my house," the old hunter grumbled, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering in spite of the heavy jacket he was wearing. "And those damned salt lines don't stand a chance. Wind blows 'em away as fast as they're laid down."

"Panic room, old man," Dean said. "There's a space heater in there and a bunk already made up, fit for God himself, if I remember right. Go ahead and get your beauty rest. I'll take first watch. Sam, you may as well try and catch a few Zs too."

"Thanks, Dean, 'ppreciate that. Wake me when it's my turn." Bobby yawned and shuffled off, patting Sam on the arm as he passed by. "Grab a sleeping bag and join me, son. You'll freeze your balls off up here."

"But I'm not sleepy yet."

"What are you, five years old?" Dean said, scowling as a petulant look appeared on Sam's face. "Fine!" Dean threw up his hands. "We'll share first watch. I'll take upstairs."

"Think I'll take a turn around the yard," Sam said buttoning up his coat and pulling a woolly hat down over his ears. After adding gloves and a moth-eaten scarf to the ensemble, he shouldered his shotgun and slipped out through the back porch, a thick swirl of snow gusting in before he could get the door closed behind him.

Dean drained the last of his beer and eyed the whiskey bottle Bobby had conveniently left sitting on the counter. His glance slid to Castiel's trench coat, back to the bottle, back to the coat...

"Fuck it," he sighed. Rising to his feet, he grabbed the trench coat off its hook before stomping his way up the stairs.

* * *

Thanks to the more extensive damage it had suffered, it was colder upstairs than it was downstairs. Dean paced restlessly from room to room, slapping his arms across his chest every now and then to keep his circulation going. Wind whistled down the hallway and little drifts of snow piled up in corners. From below, he could hear the echoing, clomping footsteps of his brother, the moose, lumbering around. Aside from that, the house was quiet, dead quiet. If he strained his ears, he could probably hear Bobby's snores through the panic room's thick walls. He grinned, amused by the thought, and shivered. Damn, it was cold! Surely, it must be near morning?

A quick glance at his watch revealed the hour to be just short of midnight.

Dean sighed, and made a final round before retreating to his bedroom. Despite it being ground zero, it still felt like a good base of operations. Familiar. The only place, aside from his beloved Impala, that came close to being home. Sure, it was Bobby's house, but this was Dean's room. He'd lost track of all the hours he'd spent here as a child, all the times he'd longed to be here rather than out on the road. This room meant marbles and Dinky Toys, trading cards and comic books. A well-used baseball glove hung on the wall, next to the shelf Bobby had helped him build: a place to store all the treasures little boys find, things that served no purpose and therefore had no place in John Winchester's world. Dean squirrelled those items away and prayed his father wouldn't find them, that they could safely be transported here.

Many treasures had been lost or taken from him along the way, but those that made it to this room remained here until Dean himself outgrew them and threw them out. There wasn't much left of his childhood, but a few things remained. Constants in a sea of change. A tattered picture of Mary, lovingly inserted in a crooked popsicle stick frame Sam had made him when he was seven. A seashell he'd picked up the one and only time their father had taken them to a beach. It was the first time he'd ever seen the sea. The water was grey and restless, the clouds threatening rain. They'd only stayed an hour or so but, if he closed his eyes, he could still smell the salt air and feel the hair rise on the back of his neck when the first crack of thunder sent them scampering for the car. He could still hear Sammy's wails of disappointment at being forced to abandon his half-built sand castle.

That long ago beach in Maine was a far cry from the turquoise sea and sun-kissed sands of Tahiti; the tiny periwinkle overshadowed by a spider conch's curved fingers and pearlescent interior. But the plain, diminutive shell and the memories associated with it were every bit as important in their own way. Important enough to warrant a permanent place on his shelf, side by side with the treasures he and Castiel had collected together on their honeymoon. Past and present merged into one, making him – for good or bad – the man he was. Shaping the man that he would be...

Green eyes fell to the neatly folded trench coat currently resting on the far end of the shelf, dwarfing the other items littered there.

_Cas..._

_The one treasure I could never bear to lose... A treasure I don't deserve... A treasure that treasures me above all others..._

Dean picked up the coat and carefully shook out the folds, a distinctive whiff of ozone tickling his nose as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, the too-large garment easily accommodating the extra bulk of his thick winter jacket.

Of all the things he had thought that he might feel tonight, after the day from hell that he had just gone through, contentment was most assuredly not on the list. Yet Dean had no other word to define the unexpected emotion he suddenly felt building within him. Standing in the wreckage of his room, trembling from the cold, he had been missing his angel as fiercely as if he were missing a limb. But now, wrapped in Castiel's coat, with a slew of bittersweet memories to keep him company, he felt the strangest feeling of contentment growing within his heart.

_Cas._

_Home._

_When did they become one and the same?_

Leaving the overhead light on, Dean crawled into bed and leaned back against the headboard. Blankets pulled up to his chin, a loaded shotgun and Ruby's knife close at hand under the covers, he sat and waited and watched.

* * *

Castiel had every intention of going straight back to Dean after his visit with Father Desmond. He even had a speech of sorts prepared: half apology, half entreaty. But the words fled from his mind as he neared his destination and sensed the wards were down, the building and its inhabitants unprotected. Dark shadows prowled the periphery of Bobby's house, sniffing at the air, trying to gauge if it was truly safe to cross the threshold.

A low growl rumbled in Castiel's throat as he drew his blade and let his wrath propel him.

The shadows fled as he materialized, the angry murmur of their voices taunting the angel.

Castiel flexed his bristling wings and followed.

The chase was long and futile. However fast he travelled, the shadows were faster; flittering almost out of range, but never so faint that he could not track their progress.

Until now...

Castiel paused upon a lonely mountain top high in the Canadian Rockies and cast tendrils of his Grace far and wide, hoping something would trigger a response. Whispering snowflakes and a cold silence were his only reply.

The disturbing thought that he had been cleverly played crept into his mind. 'Led on a wild goose chase' was the colloquial human phrase, if he was not mistaken. But for what purpose?

"Dean..." the angel murmured, and vanished.

* * *

It was a little after 3:00 am when a shiver not related to the cold danced it's way up Dean's spine, jolting him awake him from the light doze he had fallen into and making him sit up straight: instantly alert, suspicious, ready to confront an intruder, whoever or whatever that intruder might prove to be.

Dean's glance shifted left and right, up and down. The room was empty. His eyes insisted this was true, but every instinct screamed the fact to be a lie. Someone... something... was here.

_Not a threat._ The thought came to him even as his fingers inched their way towards a weapon. He closed his hand around the hilt of Ruby's knife anyway, taking comfort in the contact.

* * *

The outline of Bobby's house was barely visible through the thick eddies of snow blustering their way across the salvage yard. Castiel stood in the thick of the storm, the ice crystals freezing on his eyelashes and the snow blanketing the dark fabric of his suit unheeded, as he assessed the situation. Not a remnant of the demons' foul essence lingered. He could feel the warm glow of the three human souls safely inside: Bobby in the panic room, Sam in the kitchen, Dean upstairs. Bobby's soul was the soft, pastel swirl of deep, dreamless slumber. Sam's a combination of high alert and increasing exhaustion. Dean... Dean was a turmoil of emotion. A hint of anger, a touch of sorrow. A trace of longing and the bright, unfaltering glow of a firm resolve.

What that resolve might be, the angel could not say. Dean Winchester's temper was mercurial at the best of times. Given the day's events, it might be prudent to further observe his human before making his presence known.

* * *

The longer he sat staring at 'nothing', the greater Dean's assurance grew.

Cas.

It had to be Cas.

"I know you're there," Dean murmured, eyes unerringly tracking the invisible angel as he silently paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. "Don't make me break out the holy oil."

Castiel froze in mid step.

"I understand if you're not ready to talk about what happened, but I want you to know that I'm not angry with you. I mean, I was. I was hurt and angry. Mostly hurt – God, I'm turning into such a little girl, blubbering on and on about my feelings." Dean shook his head disparagingly. "Anyway, I've given it a lot of thought, and I think... I think I know what's happening here. You're scared. I can understand that. I'm scared too. I mean, it's not like we Winchesters are lucky in love. We attract trouble the way nectar tempts a bee. Look what happens to the people we love! Mom... Jess... I've always felt that if I ever allowed myself to fall in love, really, deeply, truly in love, then something would go wrong. Deadly wrong. It's always been easier to drift through life, never allowing anyone to get too close. Easier... and safer for all concerned. And that worked for me. I was doing fine...

"And then I met you. A nerdy angel in a rumpled trench coat. _My_ angel.

"I fought it, Cas. I fought you every step of the way. Couldn't give an inch, 'cause every time I did, I risked drawing you deeper into the damned Winchester cycle of doom. But you loved me anyway, you stupid bastard. And I was just as stupid. I loved you too... I love you...

"And you know what? It's worth the risk. It's worth the pain. Because the alternative – living without knowing what real love is – is unthinkable. I can't imagine how I ever held out so long. I must have known I was waiting for you."

"Dean..."

"Hello, Cas," Dean intoned, imitating Castiel's sandpapery-rough voice and grinning his trademark cocky grin, though tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to spill if he so much as blinked. A suddenly sharp gaze focused on the red mess that was the angel's dress shirt.

"Is any of that blood yours?" he asked, slipping from his bed and striding across the room, not stopping until he stood toe to toe with his angel.

"No."

"Good." Dean began to unbutton the shirt, pressing a flurry of light kisses to Castiel's throat and jaw as he did so.

"Dean... this is scarcely the time for intimacy. There were demons outside. I gave chase, but they eluded me. They could come back. I should stand guard."

"Sam is keeping watch."

"No offence to your brother, but he is not an angel. His senses are not as keen as mine. I need to keep you safe, prove that I – "

"You have nothing to prove to me," Dean said, slowly running his hands up the smooth skin of Castiel's sides, spreading his palms wider as he stroked back down and anchored himself on the sharp jut of the angel's hipbones. "But I have something to prove to you. Something I need you to know. I trust you," he whispered. "I trust you with all my heart, all my soul."

"Maybe you shouldn't," Castiel whispered back. "I've proven myself to be untrustworthy time and time again. I make terrible decisions. I prevaricate. I run away."

"But you always come back," Dean purred, a thumb rubbing tiny, comforting circles on the angel's flesh. "You make mistakes... and you try to fix them. You love me. What more can I ask of you than that?"

"It isn't enough."

"No, Cas. You're wrong. It's everything. It's faith."

"Faith..." A smile quirked the corner of the angel's mouth. Dean leaned in to kiss the quirk into a full-fledged smile.

"I know," he said, as he reluctantly drew away. "That's a strange word coming from me. I never believed in much of anything, you know. Not even in myself. But I believe in you."

"Dean..."

"I believe in us."

Castiel surged forward and wrapped his arms around the hunter, drawing their bodies as close together as was physically possible. Dean shivered as a blob of melting snow slid down his neck.

"You're cold," Castiel murmured, feeling the tremors shaking Dean's body.

"Half frozen," Dean said. "Heat's out." He wrapped a trench coat clad arm around his angel's neck and peered at him through coyly lowered lids. "Good thing I have my love to keep me warm."

Castiel snorted. Setting the human free, he stepped back and rubbed his hands together. A warm ball of light grew to fill his palms, slowly spilling out from between his fingers to touch upon every corner of the room. The light faded, but a glorious warmth remained.

"Better?" Castiel said smugly.

"Much." Dean sighed contentedly.

"Then, may I assume you have no further need for my coat or your jacket?"

"You certainly may." Dean's grin was positively wicked. "Too many layers of clothing between us, huh?"

Castiel nodded distractedly, and glided his fingertips up a tan sleeve. How very odd it was to see Dean wearing his trench coat. And, at the same time, how immensely satisfying. _Is this how Dean feels when he sees me wearing one of his T-shirts?_ he wondered.

"Have I ever told you about my broomstick fantasy?" Dean abruptly inquired, interrupting Castiel's musings.

The angel blinked, trying to decipher the apparent non sequitur. "You mean your explanation of the witch's threat?"

"Yeah... " Dean said, shimmying out of his clothes at record breaking speed. "She may have been a total bitch, but she had a hot imagination. So how about you lose the suit and I give you a practical demonstration of what she wanted to do."

"You wish to... ride me? Dean, are you sure that's wise? I've already lost control once. What if it happens again?"

"That's a risk I'm more than willing to take."

"But, Dean, we have to talk. I have to tell you – "

"Show, don't tell, Cas," Dean growled, his left hand reaching out to kill the lights, his right pushing determinedly against the angel's chest.

Castiel's clothing hit the floor with a sodden thump as he mojoed them to the bed.

* * *

Sam had just finished pouring himself a cup of coffee when he heard a violent scraping of furniture and a swiftly muffled exclamation sound from overhead. The words were indistinct, but he would recognize that voice anywhere: Dean.

The cup smashed to the floor in his haste to reach the stairs.

Shotgun at the ready, Sam burst into the bedroom in a panic, the echoes of Dean's second, louder cry still ringing in his ears. His free hand slammed out and hit the light switch. But before he had time to register what, exactly, it was he was seeing – his naked brother lying on top of an equally naked angel, arms tightly wound around each other and their lips now locked together – Dean was suddenly alone in the bed. He yelped as he dropped those few inches that had been filled by Castiel, bounced on the mattress and rolled to the floor in a tangle of blankets. Rich cursing filled the room, promising grievous bodily harm for the untimely interruption. But that was the least of Sam's worries. Castiel stood between Sam and the bed, sword in hand, blue eyes ablaze and a fierce scowl creasing his forehead.

Exactly where the blade had been concealed, and whether the lovers might still have been connected under the rumpled sheets (which had, thankfully, dipped no lower down than around their waists), were questions Sam would consider another time. A time when he wasn't in imminent danger of being skewered by an angel in full 'protect Dean' mode.

"Whoa, Cas!" he breathed, his gun clattering to the floor and both hands uplifted in a gesture of surrender. "It's just me."

"Sam? What the fuck?" Dean said, peering grumpily over the edge of the bed. "Don't you ever knock?"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know Cas was back. I heard you holler, and I – I – "

Castiel's sword vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, but he made no move to step aside. His fists were knotted, his breath gusting out through his nose in angry little puffs.

Dean wound a sheet around his waist and carefully inserted himself between the angel and his brother. "Well, he's back, as you can see," he said. "And he's still a little... uh... riled up. So, thank you for your concern, but I think you'd better leave, Sam."

"No," Sam stated quietly, resolutely. "Not until I know that you're okay. Cas... remember the promise I made you? Are you... you? Is Dean safe?"

It was the right thing to say. Instantly, Castiel's shoulders lost their aggressive, rigid pose.

"Yes," he said. "My apologies, Sam. It has been... a difficult day."

"All right, then." Sam nodded at the angel and threw a smirk his brother's way. "As you were."

"How were we?" Dean snapped. "You got an eyeful, maybe you can remind us."

"That's all right, Dean, I'm sure I can remember our positions. You were – "

"Good night!" Sam squeaked and fled, firmly closing the door behind him.

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized he'd left his shotgun where he'd dropped it. _No way in hell I'm going back for it,_ he thought, giving a vehement shudder at the very notion.

And that was a mistake which would cost him dearly.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

**Um, hi. I just want to say that I'm overwhelmed by all the wonderful comments I've received for this story. Your response definitely encourages me to keep writing. And that brings me to a less happy reason for this note. I have posted all the existing chapters, so there's going to be a (hopefully brief) hiatus while I figure out what happens next. Sorry about that. *ducks and runs***


	19. An Eye for an Eye

Just past the halfway mark in his descent, Sam thought he heard the creak of a floorboard below and to his left. He froze in place on the stairs, as the bare bulb illuminating the stairwell abruptly fizzled and crackled before fading out entirely. The other downstairs lights swiftly followed suit, filaments sputtering in angry protest before, one by one, they died. Even the cheerful blaze in the fireplace was suddenly extinguished, as if doused by an invisible bucket of icy water. Sam's eyes narrowed, trying to penetrate the darkness, his quick mind calculating the distance to the spare rifle stashed behind Bobby's ratty old couch, the knife block on the kitchen counter, the silver letter opener on a shelf in the study...

The gun was the nearest weapon. Ten, maybe fifteen paces from where he stood.

Sam was in motion before a second creak of a floorboard had time to sound. Fingers trailing lightly on the bannister for guidance, he hastened down the remaining stairs; was but three steps from the bottom one when he felt a sharp tug on his leg and he was falling... falling...

With no time to tuck and roll, Sam face-planted with a resounding crash, air forced from his lungs in a painful _woosh._ For a moment, he saw stars: bright spots of light which pulsed in sequence with the savage pounding in his head. As he slowly lifted himself up from the hardwood floor, and turned his aching head towards the unknown assailant, a strange, shadowy figure loomed in his vision: a flash of sharp white teeth, a sense of wrongness that made his mind cringe back in horror. And, then, he saw nothing at all.

* * *

Castiel and Dean traded lazy kisses, shamelessly nestled in the warm cocoon of a well-rumpled bed; intent upon picking up where they'd left off when Sam had intruded, but in no hurry to get there. For now, this was more than enough: the rough rasp of whiskers as their cheeks slid together; the heated, wetness of each other's mouth; teasing tongues and playful love bites; loving touches that soothed as much as they enflamed. Yes, for now this was perfect. Their bodies were sated, though the angel was already springing back to life.

_Angelic stamina... Awesome!_ Dean sighed contentedly, and gave an experimental wiggle that drew an answering sigh of contentment from his mate.

_Cuddling is pretty awesome too,_ Dean thought – though he would vehemently deny the girly sentiment if ever challenged. But there was no one around to see the mighty Winchester tiger reduced to a purring pussy cat. No one but Castiel. And the angel certainly had no hang-ups when it came to sharing personal space with Dean – in public or in private.

"Dean," Castiel murmured, his mouth tenderly laving a trail of fire down the human's neck. "Dean..."

"Yes?" Dean gasped.

"Just... Dean." Castiel gave a helpless little shrug. What else could he say? That one word encompassed his world, his reason for being.

Dean read all this in Castiel's continued silence, and more. Feeling overwhelmed by a slew of emotion – _I don't deserve this – I can't believe you're mine_ – still Dean's clumsy tongue managed to shape the perfect response, the only response his heart could ever make. "I love you, Cas," he breathed, and pressed their lips together, swallowing the angel's grateful whimper and transforming it into a lust filled moan.

* * *

An echoing crash, followed a heartbeat later by a shotgun blast, sent Dean plummeting through empty space for the second time that night. This time he managed not to roll off of the bed, though a follow up shot startled him enough that he stumbled as he gained his feet. Lunging for the light switch, his toe impacted with a hard metal object lying on the floor.

"Sam," he said, blinking dazedly in the sudden light, staring at his brother's abandoned shotgun.

Castiel was already dressed, his head up like a hound scenting danger. He cast an uncertain glance at his still naked lover, every instinct screaming at him to remain at Dean's side.

A third gunshot sounded. And a fourth.

"Sam," Dean repeated urgently. "Go!"

Castiel vanished.

Dean hastily donned his jeans, risking serious injury as he carelessly tugged up the zipper. He paused only long enough to snatch up Ruby's knife and Sam's gun, before tearing from the room barefooted. Just as he neared the top of the stairs, a piercing scream rent the night, the hateful fury behind the eerie cry literally making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. For a moment, in the deadly silence which followed, it seemed as if the world itself stood still. But then, as abruptly as it had stopped, time resumed, Bobby's steady litany of curses and Dean's harsh breathing and rapid footsteps rushing in to fill the void.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, bumping into Castiel's solid, familiar back as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He tried to squeeze past to reach his brother, puzzled by the angel's obstinate resistance.

"Sam!" he shouted again, and then again even louder, "Sammy?"

Dean's hand snaked past the blockade of Castiel's arm to fumble with the light switch. The room stubbornly remained bathed in darkness. Dean's heart fluttered against his rib cage like a trapped, wild thing; a frantic _no-no-no_ rhythm taking up the beat in his brain...

Three things occurred almost simultaneously.

A pale wash of light flooded the room as the malfunctioning switch finally responded to the increasingly agitated flicking of the hunter's finger.

Castiel's deep voice rumbled, "Don't touch him," in Dean's ear.

And Sam...

Sam, who was slumped against the wall, boneless, unmoving, slowly lifted his head. "I'm all right, Dean," he said.

Except...

Except that wasn't true.

Dean stared blankly at his brother, grateful beyond belief for the angel's quick, tight grip on his arm.

"Sweet mother of God," Bobby moaned.

"What?" Sam's hand drifted up to his face, feeling a slick wetness there. Curious, he dropped his hand back down and held it out at eye level. "Am I bleeding?" he said. "How bad is it? Dean, do you have a flashlight? All the light bulbs blew."

Silence and darkness were his reply.

"Dean!" Sam repeated more sharply. "Come on, stop fooling around. I wanna see."

"The light is on," Castiel informed the young hunter, when Dean proved unable to form an answer.

"But..." A deep furrow creased Sam's brow, comprehension of what this fact meant uncharacteristically slow to dawn. "But, I can't see."

"That's because you're blind, Sam," Castiel said gently.

* * *

The next half hour passed in a blur for Dean. Castiel blocked his and Bobby's every attempt to approach Sam, going so far at one point as to mojo them both across the room. Dean's fingers ached with the need to touch his brother. Whether he sought to reassure Sam, or himself, he couldn't say. All he knew was that it physically pained him to stand back and watch as Sam shuffled slowly across the room, hands outstretched to feel for any objects in his way. Castiel hovered at his side, offering the verbal guidance necessary to direct a safe passage, but careful to not so much as brush a sleeve against the human.

"Let me get this straight," Sam said, finally seated at the kitchen table. "My eyes are gone?"

"Not exactly," Castiel replied. Perched on the edge of a nearby chair, he peered intently into Sam's unseeing eyes. "It's more like they've been replaced."

"With what?" Sam wondered, unsuccessfully trying to keep a quaver from his voice.

"Stone," Dean said. The first word he'd spoken since he'd turned on the light.

"Not exactly," Castiel repeated, shaking his head in growing frustration, sharply feeling the limitations of the English language. "You are familiar with the legend of the Gorgon?"

"Sure." Sam nodded. "The snake-haired goddess. One glimpse of her could turn a man to stone. But Medusa's long gone. Perseus cut off her head."

"Yes, Μεδουσα was slain, but she has two immortal sisters, Σθεννω and Ευρυαλη – Sthenno and Euryale. To paraphrase Aeschylus, 'together they formed the three winged sisters, the snake-haired _drakontomalloi,_ loathed of mankind, whom no one of mortal kind shall look upon and still draw breath.'"

Sam took a deep breath and thumped a fist against his chest. "I'm still, breathing, Cas."

"So you are. And you can thank the cover of the night for that, Sam. It did not save your eyesight, but it saved your life."

"Thank God for small mercies," Bobby said wryly, pouring a generous round of shots and downing his own before passing the rest around. No one mentioned the slight trembling of his hands. The old hunter was obviously deeply shaken both by Sam's plight and his own narrow escape. Had the Gorgon not fled, screaming her outrage at gunfire and a vengeful angel's approach, he could well be blind now too. _Sam could be dead,_ he thought, and shivered.

Dean also tossed his shot back in one quick gulp, and slammed the glass down to the tabletop. Sam flinched at the unexpected noise, and a wave of guilt washed across Dean's face.

"Sorry, Sam," he murmured, as he automatically reached out to pat his brother's arm. At the last second, his hand jerked back and he looked questioningly at Castiel.

The angel only hesitated a moment before lightly resting his own fingers on the back of Sam's right hand. When nothing happened, except for Sam giving a small start of surprise, the angel gently guided Sam's fingers until they could curl around the shot glass. As Sam slowly sipped the fiery beverage, Castiel slid his untouched glass over to Dean, nodding in permission. And finally – finally! – Dean was free to drape a warm and heavy arm across Sam's shoulder. Then and only then did he gratefully down the second drink.

"It might not be so bad being blind," Sam said, leaning into his brother's one armed hug. "I mean... Things could be worse, right? I'll save a fortune in brain bleach if I don't have to see Dean's naked ass every time I turn around. And I've always wanted a dog..."

"Whoa! Hold on there, Sam. This..." Dean gestured at his brother's eyes. "This is temporary, right, Cas? Reversible at the very least."

Castiel met Dean's pleading, hopeful look with a level stare. "I don't know," he said.

"But you're an angel!" Dean's hands made exasperated flapping motions. "You can zap him better, right?"

"That is unlikely. This is old and powerful magic, Dean. That is why I kept you from Sam until the spell had fully metabolized. You could have become swept up in the lingering magic. I was not prepared to risk your eyes."

"So where does that leave us, then? Up shit creek without a paddle?"

Castiel titled his head while he considered this strangely worded question.

"Screwed, Cas," Dean translated. "We're screwed."

"Basically... yes. The Greek gods have often been, shall we say, capricious in their dealings with mankind. Nor do they look upon angels with any great favour. I very much doubt a Gorgon would be willing to negate her spell, even if she had the power to do so."

"I'm going to kill the bitch," Dean muttered. "Maybe lopping off her head will void the magic."

"And just how do you propose to do that?" Bobby challenged. "Better strike a pose you're comfortable with. It would be a shame to have your head stuck up your ass for all eternity."

"Percy-boy managed to do it," Dean said stubbornly. "So can I. I just have to find her. Cas, you'll let me borrow your sword, right? And I can use one of Samantha's vanity mirrors if I can't find myself a nice, shiny shield."

"No, Dean!" Sam and Cas chorused.

Dean glared at them each in turn. Sam's stoic expression left no room for negotiation, but Castiel's gaze dropped to the kitchen floor.

"Cas," Dean wheedled. "You'll help me, won't you? Maybe you can be the hero in this retelling of the myth. After all, you're not 'of mortal kind'. You can spit right in her eye and –"

"My vessel is human, Dean. Susceptible."

"So lose the meat suit. Go all 'multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent' on her ass. Smite the damned bitch to Hell and back. Rain down a little of that famous angelic wrath."

"Dean..."

"What the fuck good are you if you won't help me?"

"Won't or can't? Dean, I am not omnipotent. Nor am I indestructible. A single Gorgon is a close match for me in battle. If the sisters happen to join forces, they will scatter my atoms to the solar winds. But if that's all I am to you, a tool, then I will do it. I'll throw my life away for you. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Guys! Guys!" Sam begged. "Don't say something now that you'll regret later. If Cas can help us, Dean, he will. You know that."

Dean's shoulders slumped dejectedly. "Yeah," he said in a tiny voice. "I know."

"And Dean adores you, Cas," Sam continued. "You know that's true."

"Yes," Castiel whispered. "I know."

Dean reached past his brother to take Castiel's hand. Carefully, he laced his fingers with the angel's, and held on tight. "I'm sorry, Cas. I get a little crazy sometimes when it comes to Sam."

_"Sometimes?"_ The beginnings of a smile twitched at the corner of Castiel's mouth.

"If it's any consolation, he's just as much of an obnoxious asshole when it comes to worrying about you." Sam grinned, and Castiel's stern countenance lightened further.

"If you ladies are quite through," Bobby drawled, "I'd like to draw your attention to the bigger picture. Sam's misfortune aside, what the hell is a Gorgon doing in Sioux Falls? For that matter, why is my house suddenly demon central? I ganked two of them on my way up from the panic room, and two others got away from me. Sure, the wards are down, but shouldn't it take a day or so for word to get around?"

"That is a very good point, Bobby," Castiel said slowly. "I wonder..." Blue eyes lost focus as the angel's expanded senses efficiently probed his surroundings.

"Cas?" Dean said impatiently, after several long minutes had passed and still the angel remained oblivious, lost to a myriad of other planes of existence, ethereal worlds that human eyes could not see.

"Dean, the coin!" Castiel blurted abruptly, startling Dean with the ferocity of his words and expression. "What did you do with it?"

"The coin? What coin?"

"The metamorphosed coin. Crowley."

"Oh! _That_ coin. It's... it's still in my shirt pocket, I think. I was wet... and cold... All I wanted was a hot shower and some clean clothes. I chucked my shirt on the bathroom floor. As far as I know it's still there... unless Sam or Bobby did my laundry."

"What am I, your mother?" Bobby muttered. "Do your own damned laundry. "

"In your pocket!" Castiel shouted, drowning out the old hunter's grumblings. "Dean, what in Heaven's name were you thinking? Don't you know how much power that coin contains? It's pure, distilled evil. Everything Crowley was, all the power he wielded... condensed. And with Bobby's wards down... with nothing to conceal its presence here... well, it's like a beacon screaming out in the night. I'm here! Come get me! Every supernatural creature within a 4000 mile radius will be making their way towards it."

"Excuse me if I had other things on my mind!" Dean snapped. "Little distractions like you tearing off to Heaven. And then you came back... and ... and... well, let's just say you whisked me off my feet. That stupid coin was the last thing on my mind when I had myself an armful of angel."

"I hung your shirt on a hook to dry," Sam said in the sudden, uncomfortable silence that followed Dean's passionate outburst. "Behind the bathroom door. It should still be there."

"I'll check," Dean said.

"No!" Castiel exclaimed, extending a quick hand and easily pushing Dean back down in his chair. "I'll go. You stay here." He vanished with a furious rustle of feathers.

Dean was more than a little furious himself. "You don't have to baby me, Cas," he muttered darkly. "I'm not afraid of Crowley's friends."

"I didn't know Crowley had friends," Bobby snorted, amused.

"He didn't," Castiel said, popping back into existence with Dean's shirt carefully held at arm's length, pinched between two fingers as if the burden it carried made it too loathsome to touch. "He had allies... and the occasional sexual partner. He was feared, he was respected, and his demise created a power vacuum that will take decades to fill. There are many contending factions, and no one clear leader amongst them. Hell is in chaos, total chaos, and it's likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. Unless someone were to somehow obtain this coin. That – in combination with the proper spell – would grant them instant access to the throne, so to speak."

"Or allow them to bring back Crowley," Dean murmured. "Supposing some poor, sick bastard was crazy enough to want that."

A heavy silence fell as the hunters and the angel contemplated this unsavoury possibility.

"Well," Bobby said finally. "We'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen, won't we?"

"Damned right!" Dean replied. "Uh... Anyone know how we're going to do that?"

Had he been able to, Sam would have rolled his eyes in response. As it was, however, he had to trust that Bobby or Castiel had done so in his stead.


	20. And Plead the Cause

Over loud and vehement protests, most of them exploding from Dean's mouth in a steady stream of expletives, Castiel unceremoniously shepherded the three hunters down to the panic room and followed them inside. The thick and heavy door closed behind him with a determined slam as, without a glance towards his grumbling companions, Castiel strode across the room until he stood in front of a well-stocked armoire. After careful deliberation, he selected a little wooden box which contained a holy relic: a _brandea._ Opening the box, he tilted Dean's shirt until the coin tumbled from the pocket and clanked inside. Once it was safely shrouded by the little scrap of ancient cloth, Castiel firmly closed the lid. His lips moved in silent prayer, further blessing the box and shielding its contents from those who sought it. Gingerly then, as if the box was a ticking time bomb, he set it back on a shelf, nestled amidst the clutter of other arcane objects. As an afterthought, a sharp wave of his hand incinerated Dean's contaminated shirt, until not even a speck of ash remained.

"Cas..." Dean said.

The angel ignored him in favour of examining every surface, every nook and cranny of their refuge. And then he made a second circuit of the room, carefully re-enforcing the wards where necessary and, in some instances, making enhancements to them. Then, and only then, did he permit himself a sigh of relief.

"Happy now?" Dean snapped.

"You should be safe here," Castiel allowed.

_"We_ should be safe," Dean corrected, a frown creasing his forehead. _"We._ As in the four of us."

"No, Dean. _You._ You and your brother and Bobby. I'm sorry, but I must go. I will return for you as soon as possible."

"And just where the hell do you think you're going?"

"There." Castiel tipped his chin to indicate the building above their heads. "And everywhere else that I am needed."

"Cas – "

"Dean, I have silenced the alarm, but Bobby's house is still vulnerable to attack. I will effect the necessary repairs, both corporeal and incorporeal, but I must be prepared to assume my true form without a moment's notice. That could prove detrimental to your well being."

"I'm willing to take that chance."

"I'm not."

"Cas!" Dean stretched out his hand to grasp an arm in protest, but the angel was already in motion. Dean's fingers scrabbled for a purchase on tan fabric, but Castiel slipped away, leaving his mate frozen in place, holding only an empty trench coat.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Castiel repeated, opening the panic room door and briskly stepping outside. The image of Dean's furious green eyes stayed with him as he closed and bolted the door, sealing the humans inside. He stood there for a few minutes, his head bowed in regret, until he heard the answering slide of a bolt from the other side.

Nothing in, nothing out. Dean was safe. He would make amends later.

Castiel was about to vanish when the thought _if there is a later_ abruptly took root in his mind. In solemn response, he touched an index finger to the lock, a small pulse of Grace surging out to envelop the metal with a bright, cold glow. Slowly, the swirling cloud of light morphed into the Enochian form of his name. Only he could open the door from this side now. A second touch of his finger, and the letters turned a rich and vivid blue. The angel nodded, well satisfied with his contingency plan. After seventy-two hours, the sigil would fade and the bolt would automatically be released. That should be more than enough time for him to accomplish all that he had to do. And if he didn't return... well... at least he would die knowing he had not sentenced his friends to a slow, painful death in their prison.

* * *

"Sonofabitch!" Dean kicked the door in growing frustration. "I'm going to kill him."

"No you won't," Sam said. Swinging his legs over the side of the narrow cot where he'd been quietly resting for most of the past two days, he sat up and turned his head to follow the sound of his brother's angry pacing. "You'll yell – a lot – and then you'll kiss him senseless."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Make me, bitch."

"Why don't the both of you shut the fuck up?" Bobby roared. "Christ on a cracker, I'd rather be caged with a werewolf under a full moon."

"Sorry, Bobby," Sam and Dean chorused. Neither brother looked the least bit sorry.

Bobby sighed and sent a little prayer Castiel's way, urging him to make haste before someone snapped and murdered the others in their sleep.

* * *

Castiel's first order of business was securing the house from the elements. This could easily have been accomplished solely with the use of his angelic powers, but he took great satisfaction in applying the carpentry skills he had acquired while working with Father Desmond and the Habitat For Humanity crew. Granted, it took more time, but it felt good to set the damage he had caused to rights with his own two hands. So he saved his Grace for those things otherwise impossible to fix: the broken windowpanes, the shattered dishes, the charred and torn books in Bobby's study...

Slowly, carefully, he moved from room to room, repairing, sweeping, tidying, until all was back in place, or as 'in place' as the habitual disorder that was Bobby's home allowed.

Restoring the wards took less time, but was no less meticulously accomplished. He should have felt relief that nothing – no one – intruded before the last sigil was positioned but, instead, his unease grew. He could sense a horde of restless creatures circling the house like a pack of ravenous wolves.

Briefly, he debated leaving his humans in the panic room while he investigated the dangers that lurked outside, but a sharply barked prayer to 'move his goddamned feathery ass' quickly persuaded him that continuing to deny Dean his freedom would be extremely unwise. And Bobby was anxious to start researching Sam's blindness.

No use postponing the inevitable. He was an Angel of the Lord, a seasoned warrior, not a child dreading punishment!

Though he had to admit the image Dean projected of turning him over his knee and spanking his bare bottom until it tingled was... intriguing. Perhaps, he could finally learn the answer to his question about the pizza man and the babysitter...

Of course, it would be Dean's hand that would suffer in any such an encounter, so maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

_Make up sex, Cas,_ Dean wheedled, as if sensing his mate's reluctance and swiftly changing tracks. _There's nothing quite like it. Oh, the things I'll do to you... The things you can do to me..._

Castiel shook his head to clear away a barrage of cheerfully pornographic scenes.

Heaven's above, but the man was both persistent and dangerously distracting. That alone was reason enough to set him free, so that Castiel could safely concentrate on the task at hand.

Of course, to be honest, a far more compelling motive was that he simply missed Dean.

* * *

Sam, as usual, was right. There was a lot of yelling when the panic room door was finally opened. And then there was a silence so sudden and complete that only one of two things could have happened: Castiel had decide to smite his infuriating human on the spot, or he had ended the angry tirade by covering Dean's mouth with his own. From the retching noises Bobby was making, Sam's money was on the latter.

"Come on, Sam," Bobby muttered, placing a guiding hand on the young hunter's arm. "Don't know about you, but I'm sick of dry rations. I could also use a shower and a good stiff drink – not sayin' which one I need most."

The door magically swung shut behind them with a resounding crash.

Bobby snorted in amusement as they slowly climbed the stairs. "Guess Dean's not in a hurry to escape that room after all."

"Not when everything he wants is in there with him," Sam quietly agreed.

* * *

"Dean!" Castiel cried, breaking free of a fiery kiss that left him gasping for air – air he truly did not require, but somehow could not convince his vessel to stop craving at this particular moment. "Dean, we don't have time for this."

"We'll make time," Dean replied, wriggling closer in a way which pressed the burning column of his erection more firmly against the angel's thigh.

"This..." Castiel panted. "This is how we got into trouble in the first place."

"Mmmm." Dean hungrily nibbled his way down Castiel's neck, pausing only long enough to suck a vivid bruise on a sharp collarbone before kissing his way back up to breathe in Castiel's ear, "So... you wanna stop?"

"No," Castiel growled, roughly loosening his tie.

"Didn't think so." Dean smirked and dropped to his knees, eager fingers fumbling with a stubborn zipper.

"Dean!" Castiel repeated helplessly, as the human's warmth finally enveloped his straining flesh. "Yes, Dean! Like that! Oh... _oh..."_

* * *

"Did you feel that?" Bobby inquired, his head lifting sharply. "That tremor?"

"Like an earthquake?" Sam said, as seriously as he could manage. But before Bobby had time to respond, the young hunter began to laugh. "Uh, yeah," he snickered, struggling to regain a semblance of self-control. "I'm pretty sure the earth moved – especially for Dean."

Bobby flushed and chose to remain silent, returning his attention to the book spread open on his desk and doing his best to ignore how the overhead lights flickered and dimmed and flared in turn.

"Aftershock," Sam warned, as a series of lesser vibrations rattled freshly restored windowpanes. "Damn, but that angel has stamina."

"Stow it, Sam," Bobby growled. "Can't a man read in peace?"

Sam grinned, but did not press the joke any further. Instead, he sat in silence, trying hard not to fidget as long minutes passed and his inner turmoil grew. He should be helping, damn it! He hated sitting here like a damsel in distress, unable to lift a finger in his own defence. His fingers itched to hit the keyboard. He longed with every fibre of his being to do his thing: research the fuck out of any given situation. Well, that was obviously out of the question now... but be damned if he was just going to sit here twiddling his thumbs.

Sam stood and shuffled a few steps forward, in what he firmly believed was the right direction.

"You need something, Sam?" Bobby asked, gruffness failing to mask the concern in his voice.

"Thought I'd make myself a sandwich. Maybe get a start on lunch for all of us."

"Uh-huh," Bobby said noncommittally, watching Sam's slow progress with an eagle eye. "Need any help?"

"No." Sam bumped into a chair, and adjusted his course accordingly. "I'm good."

Bobby's footsteps ghosted beside him. The heat of his hand hovered near Sam's arm, but the old hunter remained respectful of Sam's desire to fend for himself. Sam clenched his teeth and kept on going. Eventually, his fingertips brushed against a wall and Sam heaved a silent sigh of relief. Now that he knew exactly where he was, he strode confidently though the darkness, knowing the way as well as he knew the back of his own hand.

Inevitably he walked into the kitchen doorframe.

"Fuck!" he cried, and this time didn't even consider shaking Bobby's hand off his elbow.

"You're doin' great, son," Bobby murmured. "How about I set stuff out on the table and you make the sandwiches?"

And if Dean lamented the fact that his ham and cheese sandwich featured ketchup rather than mustard or mayo, he didn't say a word. He was too damned proud of his brother to complain.

* * *

With very little coaxing on Dean's part, Castiel agreed to delay his self-appointed mission and remain with the humans for the evening instead. He justified this decision by stating that he needed to be absolutely certain all the wards were operating successfully before he left.

_Post-coital bliss has him wrapped around Dean's little finger,_ was Sam's private assessment. A belief that all too soon was re-enforced when, around 11:30 pm, Bobby muttered that he was thirsty and wandered off towards the kitchen. A brief silence followed his departure, marred only by the gentle turning of brittle, yellowed pages as Dean and Castiel continued their research. And then that silence was further broken by a series of wet smacking noises; the furtive rustle of hands on clothing; a quiet, questioning hum from Castiel, followed by a muffled moan from Dean.

"Dean!" Sam barked. "I'm blind, not deaf. Can't you control your baser urges for five minutes?"

"Sorry, Sam," Dean said, sounding not the least bit contrite. "But what makes you think it was my fault?"

Sam silently considered this, feeling a wave of heat travel up his neck and blossom across his cheeks as he came to the only other logical conclusion. "Oh," he said in a small voice. "Oh. Um... Cas?"

"My apologies, Sam," Castiel intoned. "But that little frown your brother gets when he's concentrating on something is... Well, it makes him..."

"Irresistible?" Dean chirped, and Sam could just imagine the smug look on his brother's face, the fond glance Castiel shot him in reply. This time, although the whisper of lips on lips was still very plain to hear, Sam kept silent, letting his brother and the angel enjoy their stolen kisses.

* * *

"Πήγασος," Castiel exclaimed several minutes later, raising his head from the pages of an ancient and dusty tome as Bobby returned bearing the gift of beer for all.

"Gesundheit," Dean offered, sliding his arm from its casually possessive rest on the back of Castiel's chair and reaching out an eager hand to claim a drink from the old hunter.

"No, Dean." Castiel shook his head, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation. "Pegasus," he translated, popping his own bottle cap and absentmindedly taking a long swallow of the cold beverage. "He has been known to be a friend to man. If you recall, he assisted the hero Bellerophon in his fight against both the Chimera and the Amazons. Perhaps, if we can locate him, he might prove sympathetic to Sam's plight."

"Maybe," Sam murmured doubtfully. "But didn't Zeus transform him into a constellation? That sounds pretty final to me."

"Allegory," Castiel said. "Many of the demigods resolved to avoid mankind, and myths were devised to explain their disappearance. Such was the case with Pegasus."

"But has he been spotted on earth since ancient times?" Sam persisted. "Have you ever seen him, Cas?"

"No... I have not. And, admittedly, it has been thousands of years since any angel or man has made mention of an encounter. He may well be no more."

"Which puts us back at square one," Bobby grumbled.

"Perhaps not," Castiel replied. "Legend has it that everywhere the winged horse struck his hoof to the earth, a sacred spring burst forth. One of these springs was upon Mount Helicon, another at Troezen. The Hippocrene Spring is of particular significance."

"Those springs are sources of poetic inspiration, dedicated to the Muses," Sam argued, resolutely ignoring his brother's muttered 'if you start spouting poetry, we're done.' "Why not seek out Apollo? Or, better still, his son Asclepius, the god of medicine and healing. He had temples at – "

"Oh... my... God," Dean groaned. "Just when I think you can't possibly get any nerdier, you manage to supersize your nerdiness."

"Why don't you just fuck off, Dean," Sam sputtered indignantly.

"Pegasus was sired by Poseidon, and foaled by the Gorgon Medusa," Castiel said, raising his voice to be heard above the bickering brothers. "I believe this makes him, as you might say, our best shot."

"A blood connection to the gruesome aunts," Dean mused, lightly tapping his half empty beer bottle against his bottom lip. "Huh. Doesn't get much better than that, does it? It's always about the blood."

"Indeed," Castiel agreed distractedly, obviously struggling to shift his focus from Dean's lips back to the question at hand. "I propose that I take Sam to the Hippocrene, once the demons have been vanquished. Its holy water could prove beneficial."

"Can't you take us there now?" Dean begged. "Please, Cas? If you're all mojoed up and there's a chance of curing Sam, then let's go. Bobby can stay here and hold down the fort. Right, Bobby?"

"Been takin' care of myself my whole life," Bobby snorted. "Think I can manage to stay alive while you three idjits are off skinny-dipping."

"Please, Cas?" Dean repeated. "It won't take long. Twenty minutes – half an hour, tops."

Castiel hesitated, but the hope in Dean's eyes proved his undoing. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "I will take you there. It is a propitious time... The sun is about to rise over the Acropolis."

And, without a word of farewell, Bobby found himself sitting in his study alone.

* * *

"Fuck, Cas!" Dean exclaimed, his teeth chattering from the cold. "If I'd known you were dumping us in a snowdrift on a mountaintop, I'd have grabbed a coat."

"This is where we need to be," Castiel replied, serenely indifferent to the howling wind and subzero temperature. In deference to the shivering humans, however, he placed a hand on each man's shoulder and swiftly led them towards what appeared to be a sheer rock face. As they drew nearer, a shimmering veil of light began to coalesce into what appeared to be an arched doorway. Dean blinked, not trusting his eyes. But there was no denying the fact that the frigid mountain air abruptly warmed and a soft, floral scented breeze wafted up in greeting.

"The Hippocrene spring is hidden unless you know just where to look," Castiel explained. "It is both well protected, and under the enchantment of eternal summer." He motioned to a dirt trail lined with anemones, rock roses, larkspur and other wildflowers; faint traces of greenery progressing to a riot of colour as it approached the newly revealed opening in the mountainside.

"Now that's more like it!" Dean said, nodding approvingly. "So what are we waiting for?"

Castiel's hands dropped from the brothers' shoulders, and he retreated several paces. "I will keep watch," he said.

"You're not coming?"

"The old ones are jealous of their dwindling powers. My Father is not welcome in this place, and so I will not lessen Sam's chances of success with my presence. In fact..." Castiel tilted his head and studied Dean. "Our bond may be a problem. My Grace is interwoven with your soul."

"Sam can't do this alone!"

"No. He cannot." Castiel shook his head in vexation. "I should have thought of this before! Perhaps, Bobby should join us..."

"If you think that's necessary," Dean said. "But I'm still tagging along. It's my job to look after Sam."

"Dean..." Sam began.

"I don't want to hear it!" Dean interrupted. "You're my brother. I'm there for you. End of story."

"Do you still want to go back for Bobby, Cas?" Sam sighed.

"I think we can manage without him. But you must touch nothing, Dean. _Nothing._ Not even Sam. Once you enter the sacred grotto, only your voice may guide him. Both of you must remove your shoes and socks and make your approach barefooted to indicate your humility. The path to the spring is clear and well-trodden. At the water's edge you will find two bowls, identically detailed with an image of Pegasus in flight, but one is black on red, the other red on black. One is cracked and chipped, the other in pristine condition. Choose the less impressive of the two: the older, battered one with the red background. Kneel at the water's edge, Sam, and partially fill the bowl. Do not be greedy! Half full is more than adequate. Lift the bowl with both hands and hold it up in offering to the rising sun. Then, being very careful not to spill a drop or touch a finger to the bowl's contents, I want you to say: Μου χορηγήσετε την επούλωση με αυτό το αγιασμένο νερό. Grant me healing with this holy water."

"Μου χορηγήσετε την επούλωση με αυτό το αγιασμένο νερό," Sam parroted, carefully enunciating each word.

"Perfect." Castiel nodded. "Drink deeply, but do not completely drain the water from the bowl. Two or three swallows will suffice. If it works, your vision should immediately be restored. If it doesn't..."

"It will work," Dean growled. "It has to work."

"Whether or not you are successful," Castiel said sternly, "you must say: Παρακαλώ δεχθείτε την ευγνωμοσύνη μου. Please accept my gratitude. Respectfully return the remaining water to the spring and the bowl to its proper place. Blessings take many forms – as do healings. Who's to say the answer is an unequivocal no, if gratification is not instantaneous."

" Μου χορηγήσετε την επούλωση με αυτό το αγιασμένο νερό," Sam chanted softly under his breath. "Παρακαλώ δεχθείτε την ευγνωμοσύνη μου."

Dean took his brother by the arm and carefully guided him towards the grotto. But, just before they stepped over the threshold where ancient and modern worlds miraculously united, he turned and gazed back at Castiel. "You'll be okay?"

"Yes, Dean." Castiel smiled, his feet enveloped by a small cloud of blustering snow, and frost already beginning to paint his dark hair white. "Take all the time you need. I'll just wait here and enjoy the sunrise."

* * *

The path curved in a gentle slope down to the sparkling water of the spring. Dean hovered at Sam's side, his bare feet whispering through the sand as he directed Sam's progress.

"Two steps forward," Dean advised. "Good. Turn a bit to your left. Um, okay, four steps forward, but be careful. The path's a bit uneven here, so – Sam!"

"Fuck!" Sam cried, as he suddenly felt himself falling. His knees and outstretched hands impacted heavily with the ground. "Fuck!" he repeated furiously. "You said _four_ steps, Dean. That dip was only _three_ steps away."

"It's not my fault if you have legs like a giraffe," Dean barked, fighting back the urge to reach out and help his sputtering brother.

Sam slowly clambered to his feet and dusted himself off. "Well?" he said impatiently, when Dean offered no further comment. "What's the holdup?"

Dean swallowed and forced his eyes away from his brother's scratched and bleeding palms. "You're facing the wrong way," he answered finally. "Turn towards my voice. That's right. Hold on a sec." Carefully, he paced ahead, exaggerating his stride to compensate for Sam's longer legs. "Okay. Five steps forward. Good. Now turn left again. No, that's too much. Yeah, that's better."

Sam grumbled, but trustingly followed where Dean led.

It felt like it took forever to navigate the remaining distance to the water's edge. Sam's shirt was soaked with sweat and his heart was pounding hard against his ribs. He wasn't sure if it was from the effort of getting there or in anticipation of what was going to happen next, and he didn't waste time trying to figure it out. "Where's the bowl?" he said.

* * *

It was a glorious sunrise. Clearly the harbinger of an impending storm, but beautiful nevertheless. A pink blush raced across pristine blankets of snow as a heavier, golden glow embraced the surrounding mountain peaks. The sky was layered like a parfait, the arched levels rising in shades of lightest to darkest blue.

Castiel's heart was filled to overflowing with joy and wonder. His head tilted to one side, that he might better hear the songs of praise the universe sang in honour of his Father: the low hum of the distant stars, the rumbling bass of the earth, the lilting cadence of water, the rich vibrato of the ever moving air...

"Help him, Father," Castiel prayed. "He is a good man, a worthy son, a devoted brother. He has served you well, despite the demon taint in his blood – a taint that was not of his doing or his choice – and he will continue to serve you to the end of his days. Please, lend your voice to ours and implore the old ones to restore his vision."

"Never mind, Cas," Dean spoke quietly from behind him. "It's done."

Instantly, Castiel's gaze turned from the horizon and shot towards the grotto's entrance, focusing upon the Winchesters where they stood verging on the brink of winter, the breath of summer still caressing their backs.

"It didn't work," Sam said, face and voice both devoid of emotion. His head was up, proudly stoic, but his knuckles were white where his fingers gripped Dean's sleeve.

Dean's shoulders drooped beneath the crushing weight of his disappointment. Overly bright green eyes shimmered with unshed tears, one perfectly formed drop finally escaping to slide down his cheek, silently speaking the words he could not bring himself to say.

It wasn't a rational decision on the angel's part but, somehow, Castiel knew it was the right thing to do. Swiftly, he crossed the small space between them and wrapped both humans in his arms, burying his face against Dean's neck, and mouthing words of comfort against the sensitive skin he found there. Dean and Sam gripped him back every bit as tightly as he held them, Dean's long-standing 'no chick flick moments' rule temporarily cast aside. After a few seconds, Castiel began to rub soothing circles on Sam's broad back while, at the same time, he nudged Dean's lips into alignment and swallowed his lover's shaky sigh with a fervent kiss.

Sam stood quietly in the double embrace, patiently waiting for his brother and the angel to take him home.

* * *

It took almost seven weeks for Castiel to be anywhere close to satisfied that the onslaught of demons and other entities converging on Bobby house had been repelled. In no small measure was this a testament to his vigilance and the stark terror an Angel of the Lord struck in evil hearts. Not that they all departed peacefully. Often, too often, Castiel returned to Dean bloodied and exhausted. Sometimes, the blood shed was his own. Tight-lipped with worry, Dean patched him up and took him to his bed. There, he wrapped his arms around his angel and held on as tightly as Castiel's injuries allowed. Sometimes, they made love. Sometimes, most times, they simply nestled close together, exchanging whispers and slow kisses until Dean unwillingly succumbed to slumber. In the morning, the angel was always gone, the warm imprint of his body the only evidence that he'd been there at all.

Normally, Dean left research to others – not because he was not good at it, he simply preferred a more direct approach to a problem: shoot it, salt it, burn it. But with Castiel hellbent on waging a war on some celestial plane of existence, the hunter flung himself wholeheartedly into research. It didn't exactly keep his fears at bay, but it helped fill the hours until Castiel's return.

When Dean grew too restless to remain in a chair, he took his equally antsy brother outside for training exercises. Lack of vision had slowed Sam down, but he was pleased to find he still had good reflexes and an uncanny sense of where his adversary was at any given time. More often than not, Dean was the one who returned to the study bruised and winded.

With the aid of a cane and the entire household committed to keeping things in their proper place, Sam didn't do too badly navigating his way through Bobby's house. In fact, he was becoming too damned comfortable with his affliction for Dean's liking. Too resigned. Too prone to making long-term plans.

Bobby encouraged this. Castiel did too.

Dean was the only one who refused to accept that Sam's blindness was forever. So, when he hit upon a promising lead in one of Bobby's ancient texts, he kept it to himself. Castiel, Sam and Bobby were far too busy and distracted to notice Dean's growing obsession. And that, as far as Dean was concerned, was just peachy-keen. Because no one was going to stop his budding plan from happening. No one. Not even Castiel.


End file.
